When First We Parted
by Laura L
Summary: Despite differences in heritage and temper, Celeborn and Galadriel meet and fall in love. Continued in "Horses and Hounds." Mithril Award Finalist 2003- Commended - Best Characterisation - Original Character
1. Default Chapter

When First We Parted

By Laura L.

NOTE: This is what happens when you read too much of the Silmarillion, especially the parts about Galadriel and Celeborn.  Note on names: Galadriel's name was Artanis before it was changed.  Celeborn is pronounced keleborn, and his Telerin name is Teleporno, which is somewhat amusing in this day and age.  If you are confused by the terms or names in this little epic, please see the end of this part.  And YES, I know that Celebrimbor most likely would not have been allowed in Doriath, but, oh well. 

Disclaimers: I own none of this, and hail Tolkien as god.  I've tried to be as faithful to his vision as possible.  I fear the ending is rather sucky, but hope to make it better by a sequel, if this is well received.

_When First We Parted_ Being an account of Celeborn and Galadriel's first meeting 

Celeborn, grandson of the brother of King Thingol of Doriath, was accounted a prince among his Sindarin people, quiet-spoken, objective and wise.  Of his deeds, few were of the heroic nature presumed to be recorded in song, for although he was a warrior when the need arose, Celeborn's skills led him in different directions.  Like Thingol, whose blood he shared, Celeborn's nature led him to understand the character of people; he gathered to him those whose talents complimented his own, and through his wisdom, he nurtured relationships with his Sindarin kinsmen who found him to be a shelter in the midst of tempests, the calm voice of reason when blood ran hot.

He was Celeborn the Wise when he was yet young, and of this, Queen Melian, the Maian wife of Thingol, had much to say.

"You are old before your time, Fairest One," she would say to his silent mien and quiet temperament.  She made not secret she thought him handsome, and she found pride in him as she did with her many kinsmen. This was no small compliment.  So, with much of what she said, she dispensed both slap and caress, calling him "our ancient wise one" alongside "our fairest one."

Of these, Celeborn withstood, for he honored his queen; in her he saw all that was hallowed in Middle-earth, all that was powerful, wise and indomitable.  All that was beautiful among women, and implacable.

In the time of the dimming of the Trees in Valinor, there was great disquiet.  Thingol fought the Orcs on his borders, and there were rumors of Noldor, exiled from Valinor, who sought their own lands to dominate in Middle-earth.  It was a dark time, for no news came from Valinor, and there was an Enemy in the land.  Councils were held, and of these Celeborn was rarely privy, for his wisdom did not extend to the unknown.

Then one day, King Thingol summoned Celeborn to council.  It was a small meeting; there were no more than twenty elves present when he took his seat next to his forefather's brother, and of these he saw two Noldor for the first time, strangers among his kin, a man and a woman.

The Noldor were Finrod and Artanis.  Of Finrod, Celeborn perceived a man representative of the Finarfin-descended Noldor, fair haired and keen-eyed, his skin very light, and his stature tall.  Artanis would have been mistaken for one of the Vanyar, by and by, for her hair was thick and a brilliant golden, but she was as tall or taller than any man in the room, and as tall as himself, who was noted for his height. Her eyes were a quick and piercing gray.  She was, at first glance, beautiful beyond compare, and at second glance, otherworldly, a light out of Valinor.

As the discussion began, Celeborn learned what had been told in earlier councils; the Noldor had come out of Valinor and sought to settle in Middle-earth.  Their numbers, for a traveling race, were not so great but greater than one would think, and Thingol was understandably wary of these princes of the Noldor, who might some day challenge his own rule.

Finrod spoke of kinship.  The two were brother and sister, their mother being of the Teleri, Eärwen by name. Eärwen was Thingol's brother's daughter, and by that calculation, Celeborn knew himself to be their distant cousin. Their father, Finarfin, was one of the leaders of their people on their hard journey, and although it was not said, Celeborn could see there was some dissension among their number, a power struggle perhaps between their father and the other princes of the Noldor.

Artanis was low spoken, her voice steady and deeper than most women's, and when she spoke, there was empathic wisdom to her words.  She spoke of the crossing into Middle-earth, and of the kin they had lost to the journey, but she did not appeal on behalf of herself or her own grief.  She was a proud woman, and it was that strength and pride that had helped her fight untold perils in a journey few women survived. All this he perceived as he observed her, and when her glance met his, she did not look away… until it was finally he who turned his head.

At length Thingol welcomed them as kinsmen, and Celeborn stood by his side to do the same.  Of the remaining Noldor, Thingol could not give such a close welcome, but he would endure them in his lands out of respect. This message had already been sent through one of their brothers. He requested Finrod to stay and speak with him. To Artanis, he spoke with respect, and asked that she rest and later meet with Melian, who had taken interest in her plight.

"Nephew," he said, turning to Celeborn (it was a kindness to name the kinship that close when it was farther away and Celeborn recognized its generosity), "would you escort the lady to the houses of hospitality, and grant her any wisdom of the doings of Doriath that she cares to hear?"

To this Celeborn silently assented, for he ascertained that Thingol's true purpose was observation. Celeborn's discernment was legendary. He bowed to the king, and turning, led the Noldorin exile from the room.  He caught her side-glance as she watched him pass her through the door, a flicker of something in the eyes that was echoed nowhere else on her still face.

"We do not often have guests, so I hope you will forgive our hastiness in preparing you a place," he apologized, as any good host would, and slowed his pace so that they strode side by side.

"And why does not King Thingol often entertain guests?" she asked, her accented Sindarin even more pronounced than in the council.  Of course, she would speak Quenya, the speech of Valinor.  He was momentarily fascinated by such a thought.  Although it was a written language every elf knew, it had not been spoken in centuries in Middle-earth, save by scholars.

"In defense of the realm, the queen created the Girdle, a barrier that keeps all strangers out of Doriath.  These are hard times and dark days.  It is hard to know whom to trust."  Perhaps that was too pointed.

But the lady merely nodded thoughtfully.  "Dark days; yes indeed.  Are you, truly, the king's nephew?"

He only returned the question. "Do you doubt it?"

But she did not answer to that. "You have the look," she said after a moment, "of no man I ever beheld in Valinor. Familiar, but not.  You are aptly named."

Melian had often said the same.  His name derived from the Tree of Tol Eressëa, meaning "tree of silver," but the name applied to an elf had a different connotation, "orn" meaning not only tree, but tall.  It was a name that even King Thingol said one had to "grow into," for it was a hero's name at best, an impressive descriptor at worst, for his long silver hair had been cultivated to his waist and shone a rare pale silver.

"I do not know the answer to that," he said instead.  "I will be as I was meant to be, nothing more."

"That is the wisest answer," she said.  "You are the king's counselor, then."

They had come upon the houses of hospitality, and the women of those houses came forward to welcome the Noldorin lady, thankfully ending a conversation that both confused and delighted Celeborn.  He took her hand and bowed over it carefully, and he could feel that perceptive glance study him again, patient and powerful.

"My thanks, Lord," she said, and let the ladies lead her away, leaving him disoriented and elated by the absolute unpredictability of such a woman. He knew now that all others had been within his scope of understanding, but this woman was not.

He returned straight-ways to Thingol and related the conversation word by word.  Thingol laughed, interpreting Artanis's comment on Celeborn's name as a subtle compliment to his kinsman.  "What power do you wield over these great ladies, Kinsman, with your blue eyes and silver hair?  I would learn that secret.  Now this Noldorin lady…nay, Vanyar more than Noldor. She has that look in her eyes, fine as a blade made of mithril but as deep as the mountains where such metal is mined.  She knew you were my counselor all along."

"Then she knew more than I," Celeborn murmured and Thingol smiled, taking his arm and ordering drink with the other.

"There is some hidden purpose to this immigration, do you think?" the king asked, at the heart of the matter.

"Not a purpose, but a cause that is not being told…some disaster, some grief beyond the dimming of the Trees.  When she spoke to you earlier of their journey, I could see it.  There is a division within the Noldorin exiles, and she knows the cause; she is close to it."

"Her father, Finarfin.  Yes."

"And an old hatred for the others. Perhaps it is best that she and her kin are welcomed into Doriath; we can learn these secrets soon enough and postpone any violence among their camp in one show of generosity.  There is nothing to lose and much to gain."

Thingol agreed to this. "She is not one to speak of anything so dear, this lady."

"Not to either of us," Celeborn replied. "Your lady might find victory in that quarter where we might be unsuccessful."

Thingol smiled at that.  "And if all else fails, we shall wield your secret power over ladies as a final resort."

And then it was a matter of drinking wine and comradeship, and for a while Celeborn forgot the strange confusion he had felt in the lady's presence.

++++++++++++

"These great ladies" as Thingol was fond of calling them, were predictably suited to one another as companions, but it was astonishing to see them together as these elf-women would walk together in the gardens, or sit together by the fire.

Melian's hair was the blackest night, sleek as a bird's wing, straight as a fletched feather. Her oval face was fair and lovely, glowing pale against the darkness of her hair.  Lashes as dark as pitch framed eyes of the palest and most delicate green.  Her features were soft and subtle, everything that was silk and flowers, and there was an earthy girlishness about her that never diminished, although she was older and more powerful than any lord or lady of the Sindar. She wore the colors of the earth, weaving blossoms in her hair.

Next to her, Artanis was a tall, athletic figure, her waving golden hair with its undertones of silver shining about her. Her face was neither lovely nor girlish; she was a woman of undiminished beauty so piercing and direct, it was no wonder the Sindar bowed at her passing. Her carriage was never hesitant, her glance never shy.  And yet her speech was always courteous, her words always measured. Like many of the Noldor, she favored white and silver, a soft layering that enhanced her golden coloring. 

When their eyes met over the table or by accident across the room, Celeborn could feel that she measured him and yet he never felt condemned, just appraised. Melian had once said that Artanis's gift was that of "seeing truly," that the Noldorin woman could judge people with little study or art, and that she could often foretell the immediate future.  He wondered if he was being judged in this manner when Artanis looked at him, or if she saw something of his future with her gray eyes.

He observed her studies in the libraries of Menegroth, of the allies she made and the judgments she imparted, and was convinced she was most unsuitably named.  Artanis meant "noble woman," and was by Melian's account the name given by her father.  Something was missing in that name. From that moment he began to think on this riddle, his mind would review his Quenya knowledge, transposing possible names from that older language to Sindarin and back, thinking she deserved an exquisite name, although he was not the one to give it, being neither kin nor husband.

It was in the beginning stages of planning the ambitious layout of Nargothrond that Celebrimbor was invited to add his craft to Finrod's efforts. Thingol had softened only a little on his mandate of Noldorin exclusion, but Celebrimbor's genius often opened doors for him.  When Galadriel's brother came to visit, he brought with him the Elven smith, and fantastic gifts from his forge enough to buy a fortnight in Doriath. Thingol had one chief weakness, and it was for the types of jewelry only the silver-handed Noldor and the elusive Naugrim had the art to produce. 

"I pity any man who loves her," the Elven smith said one night, as the household sat down to singing and the telling of tales.  Celeborn and he had been striking up an acquaintance born of similar names and, Celeborn suspected, a love of beautiful things. His eyes followed the smith's, to see Artanis in deep talk with her brother, her head bent. "Or worse, any man she loves."

Celeborn had already heard many rumors, born of the lady's beauty and manner, which the animosity between herself and Fëanor's Noldorin brethren was that of thwarted passion, but he could not account for it in her speech about those princes of her people.  Celebrimbor was another rumored suitor, and that was more likely, for the craftsman had a keener and more possessive eye for beauty.

Celeborn merely glanced askance, waiting for an explanation.

"Fëanor once asked the lady for three tresses of hair, because he found them surpassing in brilliance and wished to reproduce their brilliancy in the light of gems.  A fair compliment to a maiden, do you suppose?"

But he already knew the answer to that one, for he knew the lady well enough. "She refused him."

"Yes. Spurned lovers…a cold lady."

Was it that she was so very cold, or that she burned brighter than those around her and could not find the complimentary fire?  He wondered.

They had barely spoken since the first day.  Chance sometimes placed them together in the same company, and small words were exchanged, usually common pleasantries.  Once, in the library, she had come upon him reading out of the histories and they had spoken of language and language variation for a full half hour before Celeborn realized that Artanis had been speaking Quenya, and so had he, lured by her voice.  She had seemed somewhat thankful for the language she could only speak to her brothers.

But always was that suspicion that she withheld something from them, and always he knew she saw him as Thingol's eyes, ever watching for clues to something that could not be overtly asked.

The many years passed as if a night and a day in this fashion.  With the counsel of Thingol, Finrod began a great work with the Naugrim of the Blue Mountains, carving himself the kingdom of Nargothrond, and making many treasures by his own hand.  Many of his kin and their allies followed him into this place and swore fealty to Finrod. 

There, too, Artanis was welcomed, but she seemed content to keep to Melian's side, and many saw that the Noldorin woman seemed to be watching and waiting, and learning the arts of ruling.  It was easily seen that the proud woman would someday seek a kingdom of her own, but for now she was happy to learn from her friend.  There were rumors, too, of a secret lover she did not wish to leave, but of this man there was never a sign, and Celeborn assigned these whisperings to speculation and did not think on them.

There were uprisings of Orcs that were to be met and averted, and this the Noldor and Thingol did, being alert to changes in the land.  Celeborn was sent now and then into these sorties, for his marksmanship with the bow was no small matter, and he was named Thingol's Ear, his chief counselor.  But in general it was a peaceful life, and Celeborn only now and then would find himself tormented by the one woman he could not understand, for both of them being favorites of the queen, they were much in each others' company as the years passed.  He took to studying her, perplexed by her silence, and in this way learned her mannerisms little by little.

Then one day, the queen bid him attend her, and with her was Artanis.  At once he saw that something was greatly amiss.  Both women were pale, but Artanis only looked to her hands and would not speak.  He was much confused, for Artanis's brothers were within Menegroth, and he thought that she would be light hearted and glad, as she often was at such visits.

Melian gave him her hand and bid him sit.  "Fairest One," she said gravely, "I have much need of your counsel, and to you I give this trust.  What I tell you today, you must not speak of to my husband.  Leave that to me, for I greatly fear his anger."

Celeborn felt dread then, and glanced to Artanis, but the Noldor would not look at him.

And then Celeborn first learned the great secret of the Noldorin immigration, that Fëanor and his sons had slain the mariners of the Teleri, and taken their ships out of Valinor.  Of all these Noldor, only Finarfin's descendants had no hand in the kin slaying, Finarfin's wife being herself Teleri.  Artanis's father had spoken against Fëanor, and in retribution, he and his people had been abandoned by Fëanor to make their way by foot into Middle-earth, following to avenge this injustice.  By the time they had made their journey, Fëanor was slain, and his sons were quick to make peace, but Finarfin and his folk never forgave the evil done in Valinor.

"Of these matters, long has Artanis been silent," Melian said, turning a pitying eye on her friend, "as have all the Noldor. She has at length told me of the Silmarils, and Morgoth's murder of Finwë ere the dimming of the Trees, but of this other horror she could only say she could not council me.  But word has come from Círdan of dark whisperings of the deeds of the Noldor, and the reasons for their departure, and I fear Thingol's anger at this silence."

Then Melian rose and took Celeborn aside from the table, her eyes still on Artanis. "There was much wrong done to Finarfin's folk, and of it Artanis can hardly speak, but she fears Thingol's wrath greatly and your anger, most of all.  She knows you discerned she kept secrets that she would not tell, and holds you in high esteem.  Be kind to her, Fair One, and merciful."  And there she left him, going to Thingol before he heard the news from other sources.

Finally Artanis raised her head and looked at him, and what she saw in his face brought a little color back to hers.

"I am sorry for your suffering," he at last said, "but do not fear my anger; this secret was not yours alone, nor were you in a position to reveal it."

At this she nodded but said nothing.  At last she said: "I feared my kinsmen would banish me from Doriath, and for love of…Melian and my friends, I was selfish and kept my silence.  I still fear it, but the truth is out, and I rather the king knew Finarfin's truths, than someone else's."

"Finarfin's truths are the harshest of all," he said, for now he understood that it was Finarfin's kin who died on the journey from Valinor, and not Fëanor's who had taken the Teleri's ships. Fëanor had left Artanis and her kin to wander through fire and ice, and only because her father counseled against Fëanor's rash temper.  Artanis had seen her mother's kin unjustly slain, and had known a crueler exile.

"I still can barely speak on it," she replied, and passed a hand over her eyes, to which he had no wise reply.  

"You are a friend of Celebrimbor," she said after a long silence.

He could not comprehend the logic that had taken her there, but he replied: "Sometimes." At her questioning glance, he added: "He has a resentful nature, and we disagree on many subjects."

"I had not known you were acquainted," she said, and then he understood.

"He did not say, but I reckoned you refused him," he said, in the most delicate way he could think of without being obtuse.  At her surprised look, he said: "He was somewhat bitter and said things I would not repeat for my life.  Celebrimbor is not accustomed to works of art refusing him; it was singularly novel."

It drew a startled smile from her, and she stood, looking out of the window.  He followed and looked, too, to see several elves preparing mounts in the courtyard below, and he recognized the insignia on bridles of the horses.  Artanis's brothers were leaving.  He turned his head and met Artanis's frank gaze.  "It begins," she said, sadly, and sighed. 

They remained side by side in silence until she said: "I told him I loved another.  It was perhaps the wrong road to take."

And thus he understood the rumors, and the true maliciousness of Celebrimbor. "I see."  And his heart seemed to still and grow cold, and he was surprised by his own despair.

She looked at him, and the sorrow remained in her gray eyes. "Do you?"  At his confusion, she turned away and watched the courtyard. "It was the truth when I said it, and true still, though he does not know."

He stared at her in wonder, and his heart lightened a little. He was ashamed by his own lack of charity for this marvel of men she loved, but could not find it in himself to wish him well. "Do you doubt him?"

"No, I doubt myself, and my own heart.  Tell me, Thingol's Ear, do the Sindar have ways of courtship I would not know?  For Melian says not, but I have wondered…"

Of this subject, too little could not be said, for Celeborn knew nothing of courtship, and heat came to his face.

"You have borne the queen's teasing in silence," she said with evident wonder, "as she calls you fair and wise beyond years, and says you are young, and yet I've never seen embarrassment sit on your face until now."

"I am not one to consult in this," he said quickly.

"Because you are a man and I a woman?  But you know I speak plainer than any man; it is my greatest fault."

"No," he said to both, "but because I …" Her eyes were on him, and he almost faltered. "…know little of courtship."

At this, there was plain amazement in her face, and then it settled to understanding, and then to sympathy.  "Melian's Fair One…not know the joys of courtship?  I see now."

Again they fell to silence, where he was allowed to settle his embarrassment a little, and she evidently was rethinking on some subject, for her brow was furrowed.  At last she said: "Melian said once that you were diffident, but I take all the men of the Sindar to be shy to my own estimation, and I thought little on it, thinking there were other reasons."

She had caught his attention.  "Other reasons?" he echoed.

But she did not answer.  "How then, in your heart, would you express yourself to a woman you loved?"

He shook his head.  "I do not know that I could."

"And so the counselor cannot counsel himself?  There is a certain irony in that."  She sighed. "And the woman who loved you?  Would she be forward in…"

But Celeborn was already shaking his head, and retreating to the table. "Lady, this conversation…" It was dreadful.  He had never thought himself a coward until this moment, for he wished he could retreat and not hear any more, nor think about it.

"Oh, I am truly sorry." And here he turned to look at her, for her tone was all bitterness. "I have let my anxiety rule my actions, and have said what I should not have, but I fear…"  

A knock sounded at the door, and Celeborn, sharing a glance with Artanis, bid the supplicant enter.

It was Thingol's messenger, who seemed startled to see them standing almost side-by-side.  "Lord, King Thingol summons you to council within the hour."

Celeborn nodded, and turning to Artanis, felt his whole heart slowly sink, for she had sat down and with blank eyes, stared at the table, her golden hair falling all about her face.

"Lady," he said.

"This is what I feared, that I shall be exiled again from all that I love, but this exile will not be the willing Exile of Valinor…"

"Lady, if you ask my counsel, I would tell you to follow your heart; that is where all counsel leads."

She took a deep breath, and it shivered from her, and he knew she wept.  "He will be most surprised," she said, and a broken laugh escaped her, so that he had to stand at the window with his back to her, for he did not want to see her leave, or to see brief joy written in her.  His heart felt as heavy as a stone.  He had no hope.  No man of sense would refuse her or abandon her in her time of need.

And still there was silence, until finally and reluctantly he turned to find her standing and watching him, that watchful and patient look he was accustomed to seeing from her.  Had she changed her mind?  But her face told him nothing, until she smiled, and went to take his hands in her own.

          "My lord," she said and the warmth in her voice utterly smote him.  He could not look her in the face and see what he anticipated: the face of a friend, thankful of well-given advice, a look he had often cherished in the past, but now dreaded. "Can you not love me? Is my suit so hopeless?"

That was when Celeborn, kinsman of Thingol, knew that Artanis of the Noldor loved him, and was amazed and dumbfounded.  In that moment, he knew he doubted that such a marvel should be, and he not know it.

When he managed to speak, it came out threadbare, a whisper. "How is this possible?"

"I do not know," she said, and some of her dignity seemed to fall from her; she seemed confused. "I do not know how it is possible, only that it is true.  More true than any other feeling.  You are wise, and you are fair.  You are Celeborn…and that is why."

He stared at her, her gray eyes so light in the wash of sunlight that he thought he could see into her.  What did she see in return, a placid, over-cool Sindarin prince, too pretty for his own good, too obscure for hers? What could possibly be of worth to such a woman, whose ambitions were surely higher than his?  Wisdom and beauty not withstanding, he had too often been told his tendency to avoid positions of authority would place him eternally in the shadows.  And here was a woman deserving of a king, binding herself to him with her words.  

None of this did he know, but he knew one thing. She might not have ever said anything, if only for the timing, and knowing that her stay might be at an end.

He realized… "You have been waiting."

She closed her eyes.  "I have, for I could not tell…I have had a hundred suitors, and still I could not tell."

It had been said more than once that he was too quiet, too reticent, a cool face and a colder look, the warmth reserved for his friends.  This manner had allowed him to observe and not be observed himself, and he had never quite regretted it, until now.

"Will you not answer?" she murmured.

Could he love her?  How could he not?  Not until this moment did he understand that he, too, had been waiting, and the folly was that they each might have waited longer still, wondering of the other.

"I do not know how it could be or why you should love me," he said slowly, "but ay, I can."  And at her questing look and tightening hands, he added: "I do."

A little breath escaped her, and loosening one of their joined hands, she raised it, brushing a butterfly-light touch across his cheek.  "Celeborn," she said, but she could have said "beloved"; the tone was that intimate.

He found he could smile even as he wished to weep; the feelings were too strong either way.  "I must confess, I have renamed you too often in my thoughts, and I knew it was a lover's prerogative, but I could not help myself."

Her eyes glinted appreciatively and her fingers caressed against his cheekbone.  "What name have you given me?" she breathed, and the eager light in her eyes grew.

"I thought of it in Sindarin, but you are more accustomed to Quenya, are you not, as your other names?  Alatariel in Telerin, or Altariel in the Quenya, if you prefer."

She smiled then, and repeated, savoring: "Altariel…woman crowned with brilliance…" Her smile deepened.  "Ah, but I speak Sindarin now here in Middle-earth, and will put Quenya behind me by and by.  It is a beautiful name in Sindarin, is it not?"

"Ah, it is."  He closed his eyes, feeling her touch and the unseen warmth of her approval.  "Galadriel."

"It is a beautiful name," she whispered. "I shall be Galadriel, and put aside my childhood names.  Alas, I cannot improve upon yours, for you are without dispute tall and silver, and I much prefer your Sindarin name to the Telerin, which I find more formal and less graceful."

He had to laugh.  "Celeborn you prefer, and Celeborn I will be."

A touch against his lips and he opened his eyes to find her fingers tracing them every so lightly.  "Lady."

"Galadriel," she corrected patiently, with a hint of merriment.

"Galadriel," he willingly complied, entranced by that light touch.

"I find myself having selfish thoughts," she said softly.  "I am strangely grateful that no woman nor man has courted you. However, I wonder at the good sense of the Sindar, that they have not been tempted by you.  But I shall not reprove your people when they leave the best for me."

He could feel the color flood into his cheeks and she chuckled. "Wonders of wonders, this blushing, and all for me."

"Yes."

A sound intruded, imparting that they were no longer alone.  Galadriel let drop her hand, but they still clasped each other's.

"So at last the waiting has ended," said Melian from the doorway, and glided through in a brush of airy green silk.

Celeborn struggled not to blush anew, perceiving that the queen must have known this would happen far in advance.  She was, after all, the wisest woman he knew.

"But glad though I am at this happy event, I am the bringer of ill news."

Galadriel nodded, but Celeborn only pressed her hand.  "The king is angry."

"He is, and has had strong words with your brothers already.  The slaughter of the Teleri…yes, it has quickened his temper that the truth was not told by Fingolfin, king of the Noldor.  Have no fear, he shall not repudiate you or yours, for he knows you are blameless in those acts and have suffered for your father's honor.  But, for this time…"

Celeborn felt the shock in his heart, and looked to Galadriel.  Her eyes were sad, but the sadness was tempered by the revelations of the last hour, and he could see that she would endure.  "I will go to Nargothrond and my brothers," she said.

"His ire shall pass, my friend," the queen comforted. "Rest assured."  A gentle glance at Celeborn. "Although this parting is ill-timed in other matters, I think it will end happily."

The elf lord closed his eyes until Galadriel's voice brought him to himself. "Celeborn?"

"I do not wish to be parted from you so soon," he told her, "but I know the wisdom of it, even if my heart rebels."

"There will be many such partings for us, I fear," she said sadly, "but we shall always find each other; that I know."

He caught her in his arms, amazed at his own desperation.  "Galadriel," he murmured against hair, they said, the color of the blessed Trees, co-mingled. 

"Will you come to me in Nargothrond?" she breathed against his ear.  "For I think I shall not pass a day without thinking on you.  Thingol will need you, but will you come when you may?"

"I will," he answered.  "I hope we shall never be parted long."  He kissed her softly, inhaling the warmth of her, the softness over a core of strength.  He did not care if she would think him hasty.  The swift progression of confessions after such a long wait seemed to pardon an understanding that came swifter to most of their brethren. 

Elven courtship was, one Naugrim once told Finrod (who had shared it with his friends in Menegroth), a slow dance in which generations of kingdoms rose and fell.  Finrod had laughingly added that he had not the heart to inform this particular Naugrim that although Elvish courtship was very slow, Elvish dalliance was not.  Casual lovers touched and parted in a blink of the eye for most of their race, until the essential mate was found.  In both respects Celeborn's reticence had been unusual, for he had no taste for dalliance and no experience of courtship.  

Of course, he did not know how Galadriel's life had progressed before her exile to Middle-earth, but he had watched her carefully in the court of Doriath, where it was remarked that there was never a sign that she had ever taken a lover, or if she had, she was remarkably undemonstrative.  Of courting, she never began that serious dance until this day, he was sure.

He wondered, suddenly, how long she had waited, how many years, for it was nigh on eighty years since her arrival in Doriath, from that first meeting. He wondered how long he had deceived himself in this regard.  Was it possible he had loved her all along?

"Come to me at Nargothrond," she said, kissing him lightly in return, her arms tightly wound about his ribs.  "You will have such welcome as they will lay down in song, and there I shall convince you of all the reasons you should cleave to me."

And that was their first parting.

First draft: December 29, 2001

Revision: August 12, 2002

****

**_Some Notes:_**

Doriath in the land of Beleriand (in Middle-earth):

Thingol: king, Sindar

Melian: queen, Maian (elder race)

Celeborn: Thingol's brother's grandson; later, Galadriel's husband

Celebrimbor: Elf smith and lord, admirer of Galadriel, grandson of Fëanor 

Menegroth: the caves that were carved in Doriath, where Thingol rules

Girdle: spell that Melian erected to keep enemies out of Doriath

Naugrim: the race of dwarves

Nargothrond: an underground realm carved by Finrod and the Naugrim

Exiles of Valinor (the blessed realm in the west):

Noldor: one tribe of elves of Valinor

Teleri: one tribe of elves of Valinor, related to the Sindar

Artanis: later known as Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen (who was related to Thingol)

Fëanor: Galadriel's half-uncle, maker of the Silmarils and leader of the rebellion in Valinor, that resulted in the slaying of many Teleri, and Exile to Middle-earth

Fingolfin: Fëanor's eldest half-brother, King of the Noldor in Beleriand

Finarfin: Fëanor's half-brother, father of Galadriel, Finrod and others

Languages:

Quenya and Telerin were used almost exclusively in Valinor.

Sindarin, related to Telerin, was used in Middle-earth.


	2. Horses and Hounds

Horses and Hounds: 

A story of Celeborn and Galadriel in Nargothrond

By Laura L.

Sequel to "When First We Parted" http://www.luchau.org/writing/whenfirst.htm

Disclaimers: I own none of this, and hail kindly Prof. T as god.  I've tried to be as faithful to his vision as possible.

_Horses and Hounds_

          Finrod son of Finarfin had a close association with the Naugrim; he labored long and hard in their company, carving out the caves of Nargothrond.  He learned the craft from examples of Thingol's Menegroth, but had added his own art to Nargothrond's many pillared halls, for he could recall the loveliness of the trees in Valinor, and would capture his sweeter memories in immutable stone for all the generations to see.

          Little had he known that his realm would be one of sanctuary in times of trouble, and it was in such a time that his sister, Galadriel (once named Artanis) came, avoiding the wrath of King Thingol of Doriath.  

          There was no enmity between Menegroth and Nargothrond; indeed, there was much love and kinship.  Thingol's ire, responding to the discovery of truths hidden, was a mortal thing; Finrod and his kin anticipated a warm welcome soon enough.

          It was less than a day from his sister's arrival, that the golden-haired Noldor lady visited him in his workshop in the recesses of his kingdom.  He could sense her entrance easily enough; the force of it sent Naugrim from her path like so many ripples in water.  It had always been thus, that every lesser living thing should make way for her, either from worship or fear.

          They spoke a time on recent events while he finished the planning of the aqueducts that were to supply the second section of caves, but he knew she did not speak of the one thing that most occupied her mind.  His sister had long since dispensed of the lady-like habit of speaking in circles; she was usually very blunt.

          "Out with it, Sister," he said finally. "You have some purpose, coming here in all this state and upsetting my fellow workers.  Speak!"

          "It concerns Lord Celeborn," she said. 

          He raised his brows and said nothing, waiting.  He knew Celeborn the Sindar sure enough; he was King Thingol's counselor, his "Ear."  Of personal speech, they had had none for Celeborn was as quiet as he was wise; some said cold, but Finrod would not judge until he had experience in the matter.  He recalled vaguely that the lord was a distant cousin, sharing a forefather's father to some degree, and that he was much admired among the women, Sindar and Noldor alike, for his long silver hair, blue eyes and exceptional height.  A lordly man, as they would say.

          "I expect him to visit in future," she continued. "I have asked it."

          Finrod smiled then, seeing the gist of the conversation. "Truly? Was this the source of your new name, then? Has there been an agreement I have not been privy to?"

          "No agreement yet," she said, "but there are feelings on both sides."

          _She loves him_, he decided, watching her dispassionate face closely, and noting tardily that she had not answered the first of the two questions. It was somewhat surprising to him; he had long despaired that love could touch his sister, considering how many suitors she had refused on little or no grounds.

          "He is an honorable man of good lineage," he commented, "not so bad a catch as all of that, and if you have relented and let him speak the words with you, I account him brave enough.  I would be honored to have him as a guest.  I am surprised, though.  You have refused men fairer and higher."

          "I care not for that," she said, although Finrod wondered if that was a lie. His sister was proud and ambitious.  A petty lord was not her style at all, and Celeborn had little to recommend him but a tenuous princely connection to the king and a close friendship with Queen Melian.

          "Perhaps then he has more to his character than I know," he said to placate her, though she neither looked affronted nor wroth.  

          "Perhaps," she replied, and politely took her leave.  The caves seemed to dim at her passing and Finrod had to smile at that.  If Celeborn was the one for Galadriel, he would have to have more reserves of inner strength than most, for the lady's personality could easily overpower those not able to withstand her.

          He would take the measure of Celeborn when the time came.

          It was almost a month to the day Galadriel had taken up residence that news came to Finrod that Lord Celeborn of Doriath had been sighted riding in from the east, unescorted.  There progressed admiring descriptions of his horse and of his manner among the lesser servants who valued such things, and as Finrod made his way to prepare a fitting welcome, it did not escape his notice that several others were doing the same, not all of them women.  It was rare that a Sindarin noble entered Nargothrond, and this one was bound to bring news of King Thingol.  Also, many of Finrod's people had never seen a "Dark-elf," an Eldar who had never seen the light of the Trees, whose ancestors had never left Middle-earth in the great migration to Valinor.

          Somehow, Finrod knew those were only half of the reasons for hurried preparations.

          Galadriel descended into the courtyard in a stately glide that had always overawed him and his brothers; her dress was faultless, her hair was shining golden in the sun, and her face was a perfectly detached welcome. He could see immediately that she was inwardly overwrought, but he doubted few could discern it in her manner.  He took her hand as she met him on the landing between flights of steps, and descended with her. Lacking his own wife, he had found the last month rather interesting.  A sister seemed to fill in those womanly spaces that only a lady might fill in affairs of state and domesticity, even when such a lady was hardly domestic.  Galadriel was not the sort of woman who sat all day embroidering pillow-coverings; she had other interests.  

          An escort had met the lord on the outskirts of Finrod's lands, and their horses now clattered into the courtyard, dismounting to see to the Sindar arriving behind them.

          He had forgotten how different Celeborn looked, among the Sindar, even among Finrod's golden and not so golden Noldor. He was not dark, nor was he golden as the descendants of Finarfin.  He was absolutely silver, from the pale cast of his skin to the shining straight river of his hair, and his dark blue eyes were even more dramatic in contrast with all of that lack of color.  He affected clothes that had tints of blue and silver in them, and even his traveling clothes took up this theme, cunningly woven and warm fabrics of soft grays, embroidered lovingly with vines and pale blue leaves, a cloak of a darker gray against which his long hair only seemed brighter.  Even his bow and quiver of arrows were worked with silver and ash-colored wood. 

          The horse, however, was unrelieved black, unadorned except for necessary saddlebags and a very fine bridle.  This was the horse that stable hands had been so excited about, and Finrod could see why. It was a filly, very delicate in her bones, and highly spirited, considering the little prancing steps she displayed as Celeborn drew up and stopped.  Something quite different from the Noldor hardier breeds.

          Finrod glanced at his sister.  While everyone seemed to be focused on the dismounting lord, or his horse and gear, Galadriel's eyes seemed to be trained on the air between them, not focusing too finely on anything in particular.

          She was, he could see, afraid to reveal anything among the numbers in the courtyard, or even to her own brother, afraid for her dignity, or even perhaps for the lord's.  She would not run down those remaining steps like any maiden thankful for the sight of her beloved, no.  He tightened his fingers around hers, and she started slightly, glancing at him.  She could not answer his encouraging smile, but she nodded, and they stepped down the last steps even as Lord Celeborn saw things into the hands of the servants and came forward himself.

          They were well matched.  Celeborn's smile was courteous and strangely diffident, and his bow was as courtly as could be.  Only his eyes revealed anything, glowing like a patch of clear sky.  No, not cold, Finrod judged, just shy and self-contained, not someone who would seek outward fame.  He was strangely reminded of his father, Finarfin, and his brother, Orodreth.  Knowledge before self; wisdom before glory.  Such people were often forgotten by history, despite their noble deeds, and trampled underfoot by those ambitious few who would be remembered.

          "Celeborn Lord of Doriath," he said, "welcome."

          "Indeed, welcome," Galadriel murmured.

          "Many thanks to your generosity," the lord returned, quite correctly.

          "Come, it was a long ride I doubt not, and there is warmth inside.  The kitchen has worked a miracle at the news of your visit."

          "It is providence, then, that my appetite is so eager."

          "Would you rather rest a while first, or is it fine with you to go straight to the board?" Galadriel asked as servants relieved him of his cloak in the entryway, careful of his hair that, enviably, fell straight and perfect as if newly combed after such a disturbance.  

          "I am, to be honest, famished.  I took no meal before I left Menegroth, for to do so would be to further delay, and I had already been delayed several times."

          "To the board it is, then," Finrod replied with cheerful generosity.

          The servants waited as they seated themselves in the smaller and more elegant of Nargothrond's dining halls, Celeborn's eyes coming to rest on Galadriel amidst the splendors of the hewn caverns as if they did not exist.

          Finrod signaled for repast, and spoke to the steward about the wine, leaving a time for the two in his conversational absence.  Neither spoke, but apparently something was communicated by their eyes, because when he turned back, both had relaxed somewhat.

          "It has finer look than Menegroth," Celeborn said, glancing about himself, "and has a more practical structure."

          "I have been lucky to learn from Menegroth's successes," Finrod managed with false humility, to which Galadriel gave a small laugh.

          "Do no be deceived. If you give him a moment's breath, he will tell you every proud detail, and call in the Naugrim to corroborate."

          Celeborn smiled then, warmly, and Finrod could see why his sister had chosen him, if indeed there was a choice at all. Some things, Thingol would say from experience, were fated to be.

          After food and much wine it became clear that their guest was weary from the travels and sleepy from the generous welcome, so he was ushered kindly to his rest.  Already there were requests for an audience with the lord, and Finrod had to see that some general meeting could be arranged between the higher lords among his folk and the Sindarin noble.  He assumed most of it was wont of news.  Hopefully none of them were proposals of marriage or amour, for he would not want any woman or man to have to face Galadriel's jealous wrath.

++++++++++

          Celeborn slept through most of the early evening, waking by habit later in the night. A bath was prepared at his request, but he dismissed the female servants from their duties, noting already that the Noldor seemed to be rather more forward than his own people when it came to their admiration.  Even he, who would often misunderstand the looks given him, could not misinterpret the disappointed frowns and pretty sulks at this decision.  He kept only two male servants to help with the strange faucets and with the drying of his hair, which was something of a nuisance. 

          Finrod had managed a system of hot water from underground springs, so it was entirely his fault that Celeborn soaked in the water longer than usual, only to be enticed by the prospects of soft warmed towels and cool mineral water.  As he drank and the servants set to drying him, he reviewed his arrival.  Galadriel had taken up his vision entirely, for her beauty seemed to have doubled in the month of their separation, but it wasn't until they had seated themselves for a meal that he had been able to meet her eyes. In them, he had seen anxiety to match his own, and a kind of nervous relief.  Finally, the long parting was over.

          He had not been idle the past month, and preparing for this visit had been much on his mind despite the duties he was expected to perform in court.  He had even been able to importune Celebrimbor to help, trading in many favors for one great creation of the smith's hands.  It had been more than difficult: as a Noldorin, Celebrimbor was not welcome in Doriath, so all arrangement had to be made rather cursorily.  Additionally, the smith had not forgotten Galadriel's refusal, but he was not one to let it effect his appreciation of her beauty, which seemed a higher matter.

          Celeborn dressed in his cleaner and more elegant clothes, thanked and gratefully dismissed the attendants, and set out to explore Nargothrond.  He was not lacking in willing and helpful guides, for where ever he went, there were people who knew who he was.  He was more than once ensnared into conversation that he was polite enough to avert before it stumbled into more familiar subjects.  Finally, word must have found its way to Galadriel, because as he toured the night gardens on the west side of the main hall, there too was Galadriel.  It seemed the perfect place for such a meeting.

          "Are you lost?" she asked with a smile, taking his offered hands.

          "Not particularly, or if so, I am a willing vagabond."  How young she looked in the moon and starlight!  She wore a thin, long-sleeved dress, not layered as he was used to, and a long embroidered vest over it, picked with silver and pearls.  No jewelry adorned her, and her hair was completely unbound, devoid of braids or ornamentation.  It seemed to be a sign.

          "And do you like Nargothrond?"

          "Better to ask if I like what is housed in Nargothrond; I'd rather admire the pearl than the oyster."

          At this she laughed softly, her fingers tightening over his. "How your wit has sharpened in my absence!  Whom have you been honing it on?"

          "Before he left, Celebrimbor, if you can believe me.  I was much in communication with him, in the matter of a project we collaborated on."

          "Oh?" Her eyes lit speculatively. "What sort of project?"

          He smiled at such an opportune opening. "This."  Opening the pouch on his belt, he presented her with the pendant, glinting in the moonlight, a polished and clear stone of the deepest and verdant green, set in cunning twistings of silver workmanship in the shape of an eagle.  "We debated long and hard on the manner of bird it was to be, and knew it could not be anything less powerful than the greatest of birds."

          She took it with some awe, inspecting the fine detailing, and said in a hushed voice: "This is no mere bauble."

          "Indeed not."

          "This should be an heirloom," she said.

          At his silence she looked up again and miracles of miracles, she colored, because she could see the answer in his eyes.

          "I hope it shall be so," he said quietly.  "It is for you."

          "Celeborn," she breathed, amazed.  Their eyes met and held for a long charged moment, which broke when she looked again at the pendant.  "Is there a chain?"

          "Yes." Shakily, he pulled out the silver chain and slid the pendant on it for her.  She pulled her hair over her shoulder and he carefully clasped it behind her neck, his fingers suddenly awkward at their business.

          She turned, touching the pendant to center it.  As fair as she was, the silver seemed to glow white against her skin.  He smiled, pleased that the gift was well received. 

          Another silence fell.  Finally she took his hand and brought it to the pendant, now warmed from her skin and he found his fingers closing over it, the knuckles brushing the swell of her breast.  They both inhaled sharply, eyes wide and meeting again, startled.  It suddenly came to mind, the first and last time he had touched her, the kiss they had shared at Menegroth the very day she had left.  He had not meant to do it, for he was not the sort of man who insisted on intimacy so soon after declarations had been made, but the time seem to demand it, the very desperation of that parting seemed to need it.  Remembering it sent a flash of heat through him.

          Her eyes flickered over his face, as if to memorize it, and she seemed to be on the verge of saying some important thing, but at last she merely bent her head and kissed his hand where it lay.  It seemed a natural progression for him to turn his hand, cupping the smooth warm cheek, his thumb finding the arch of her cheekbone.

          "You deserve things of beauty," he murmured, half to himself, but her answer was a delight.

          "It is meet that I have had the winning of you, then," she laughed, "for there is none more beautiful.  You Sindar do not guard your treasures so well as you should, for I have snatched you from Thingol's kin and mean to adorn myself with you until the end of my days."

          He could feel his eyes go wide at this audacious pronouncement, but his tongue was already forging ahead. "I think it is the other way around, Lady," he said. "For I have stolen the prize of the Noldor and mean not to return her."

          "Is that wise?" she asked playfully. "Imagine what my brothers might say to that."

          "Ah, well, some think me wise enough to put one foot before the other, and as for your brothers…"

          "They're here."

          "What?"

          She was staring over his shoulder, and he turned and found two men approaching them. Although he had only seen them at a distance, he knew them immediately from their stature and the cut of their features.  They were Orodreth and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin. 

          He bowed and they returned the gesture, observing him curiously, then glancing at Galadriel. The eldest of the two, Orodreth, looked much like a dark-haired version of Finrod, but Aegnor seemed to have taken after their Telerin mother, for his hair was like Galadriel's, silver among the gold, and he was a slender tree to Orodreth's broader frame.

          "We have been to Fingolfin," Orodreth told Galadriel, "taking Thingol's decrees and delivering news. It is truth that he had pronounced it; in Beleriand, only Sindar shall be spoken and never our tongue again."

          Celeborn had been witness to Thingol's rash decree, given against his best advice. Something of his thought showed in his face, for Galadriel looked at him.

          "What means he by this?" she asked.

          "That the slayers of his kin shall not speak their language in his land, only Sindarin.  I spoke against it, Lady."

          "Ever the scholar," she said, and nodded, understanding his desire to preserve the Noldorin Quenya, "but you cannot save the old language any more than we.  It is a just punishment."

          But Orodreth made to object.  "Some would say we have been punished enough."

"It is just," she repeated after a hard glance at her brother, "to speak the language of the land that has generously accepted us, despite our sins.  Valinor will remember Quenya when it has been forgotten here."

          Her brother sighed and nodded.

          "We have also come from Finrod," Aegnor said then. "There is a gathering in the upper terraces and if you were abroad, that you and the Lord Celeborn should join the host there.  He has liberated many old bottles of the rarest grape, and I hope, Lord," here he nodded to Celeborn, "that you shall not disappoint us. The reputation of Doriath will be upheld by you in this."

          "Then by all means," Celeborn returned, and motioned that he would follow.  Pausing, he offered his hand to Galadriel, and she took it without hesitation, although her brothers looked on the gesture with some amazement, sharing a quick look of growing understanding between themselves.

          The upper terraces were constructed at the highest levels of Nargothrond, and had carved lattice ceilings, letting the light of stars and moon filter through stonework shaped as vines, leaves and flowers.  Suspended from the lattices were a thousand small lamps in imitation of bright stars, their cunningly wrought glass exteriors colored gold, silver, blue, and red.  Celeborn let his awe show as he entered with Galadriel on his arm.

          Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond, sat at the head of one of the great tables in a chair carved with the twining vine-pattern so beloved of the Noldor.  He wore a circlet on his golden brow, and on his arms he wore bands of silver twined with gold. In contrast, his raiment was white as with many of the Noldor, a simple elegance that brought to mind less complicated times.

          The folk of Nargothrond were gathered here in great number, and many of them were not the golden folk that Celeborn might have predicted.  That golden hair did not run true in all Noldor, he surmised, just as Teleri silver did not run true among his own people. Rather such colors sprung up as rare and precious surprises among a folk that were, after all, from the same race as Thingol…dark haired and gray eyed.

          A silence settled over the assembled peoples, as Galadriel led him to her brother to pay their respects.  Finrod motioned for cups and wine for the new arrivals, an amused eye noting their closeness, before he stood to gather the attention of all.

          "We welcome our cousin, Lord Celeborn, kinsman of Elwë, and friend of my sister, the first Sindar to guest here in our halls of Nargothrond.  May the stars shine always upon your endeavors."

          Celeborn bowed his head humbly at such a welcome, noting Finrod's use of Thingol's oldest name, Elwë, a name that subtly recalled that they all stemmed from the three lords of their people, Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë, and that they were a combined people whose differences were fewer than one supposed.

          As music began to play and the assemblage relaxed and began to socialize, Finrod offered the place of honor to his guest. Galadriel sat beside him without hesitation, and Finrod's brows rose at this and at the pendant now resting on the curve of her fair breast.

          "Surely this is the craft of my friend, Celebrimbor. Wise is Lord Elwë to harbor such a craftsman, even for a short time," the lord said, bending his gray gaze upon his sister.  "Celebrimbor and I share a love in common…" He smiled at Celeborn. "…the love of craftsmanship.  It is not surprising that his grandfather was Fëanor, one of our greatest and most fell."  Finrod's bemused expression was half part awed and half part bitter. "Thankfully he has not his father's temper."

          "Has he not?" Galadriel murmured.

          "Oh, do not hold Celebrimbor's own arrogance against him, Sister," Finrod admonished. "Surely, he resents, but he forgives as well, something his sires could not learn had they ages of tests to endure.  Lord Celeborn obviously finds him of use, if I mistake not this gift and its source."

          "Yes, Lord, it is his work," the Sindar replied.

          "But not his design, if I see true.  You bring such a gift to my sister, Lord, and I shall not forget it, for generosity engenders generosity, does it not?  I owe much to Doriath already."

          Celeborn risked a small glance at Galadriel, whose proud and haughty look told him that this was one woman who would not be considered a reciprocal gift, no matter how much Finrod owed to Thingol. Celeborn restrained an understanding smile.

          "Lord, it is merely in homage for beauty that it is given, not in any hope of making Nargothrond indebted to Menegroth."

          "So speaks a councilor," Galadriel murmured. "I shall warn you both against each other, that Sindar and Noldor pride may dash themselves athwart the other and reduce all to rubble ere either bows in humility."  She cast a stern gray eye in her brother's direction. "Do not sell your sister's pride to salve your own. We will always be indebted, and nothing can erase that debt."  She rose, giving Celeborn her hand. "But despite all that we owe to others, it shames me, how soon we Noldor forget."

          Finrod had the decency to look chastened. "Scourge me not with your tongue, Sister; I meant no harm in my words."

          "Harm need not be meant," she replied with a kinder tone, although the necessary emphasis on the last word would make anyone flinch, even the lord of Nargothrond. "Come, Lord Celeborn, I would have you known to my cousins while the night is young.  Brother, we shall return."

          The men nodded at each other, twinned and harried looks betraying in an instant who was the true domestic ruler of the moment as she led Celeborn into the crowd.

          "You are too stern," he whispered and when she did not reply, slowed himself, forcing her to pay attention to him. "You do not own me enough to tug me about on a tether, Lady.  Stay a moment."

          Sighing, she stopped and turned. "You know so little of my brother," she said, "if you think his words light."

          "I think you have had too many glimpses of what is dark and treacherous that you cannot allow that some things are only as they appear."

          Her light eyes studied him, arrested for a moment by his words. "That may be so," she allowed. "But you cannot know…" Her eyes glinted. "…but this is not place for this sort of speech," she concluded.  "Please, let me introduce you."

          The Noldor were not so different from the Sindar.  Although preserving the light of Arda in their eyes and the language of Valinor in their accent, and although Finarfin's descendants were golden beacons, they were indeed one people, gray eyes more than most, long and slender bodies, hair grown to lengths of beauty, the darkest as beautiful as the brightest.  The Noldor were famed for their warlike miens, but there was softness here too, among both women and men, and crafts beyond the blade and the bow.  Galadriel introduced him to spinners who eagerly promised silver silks to match his hair, metallurgists who wore their talents upon their bodies, musicians and singers who wove power through their hands and voices.  There were those who took pleasure in serving, and they were no less noble than those they served.  There were the haughty and proud, and there were the merry and light.  And although he knew that many of them had crossed the Grinding Ice with Galadriel, he could hardly imagine such fine people suffering, for it hardly marked them, except that he could imagine the bravery. 

          So intent was he on noting what he saw, that it took longer for him to see that Galadriel's purpose in introducing him was not for his edification at all.  She was gathering approval of her choice, rather subtly to be sure, and measuring his ability to travel among people of a different society.

          Finally, they returned to the high table when music and mingling subsided and the midnight meal was served.  He had the distinct impression he'd been put through his paces with admirable skill, trotted out like a fine hound or stallion.  He let that thought lay there for long moments, surprised that he felt no insult in the idea.  Many a man might find himself tested thusly, but Celeborn had very little pride in these matters, or maybe very little self-doubt.  There was a certain satisfaction in knowing he was worthy of such effort on her part.

          He remembered Aegnor's words, and kept the wine flowing as talk passed from one subject to another.  When Finrod's bard began to perform and the court hushed in attentive politeness, Galadriel leant and said in his ear: "They mean to drink you under the table."

          With as much subtlety, he replied: "See that I get as much water as wine."

          He saw her think on that, then glance at his water goblet.  A spark of wicked humor danced in her eyes when she realized he'd been watering down his own drinks all night.  She took his hand under the table and with her index finger traced a series of characters…_golodh_…"wise."

          He smiled.  He had no foreknowledge that from that point on, "Celeborn the Wise" would be the name that followed him, and would become an appellation beyond the confines of Doriath.

          Celeborn was used to such formal affairs in Doriath, but had not taken into account the differences in temperament between the ruler of Menegroth, Thingol, and Nargothrond's king, Finrod.  When most of the meal was finished, an older Elf arrived with a harp, and to Celeborn's surprise, brought it to Finrod himself, as one would one minstrel to another. Silence descended upon the fellow inhabitants of Nargothrond, and even Galadriel turned attentive eyes as the Noldorin king tuned the instrument, plucking a series of notes quickly with skilled hands.

          "I hope I do not insult our guest by using the old speech," he said, by way of introduction, and then began to sing.

          Finrod had an amazingly subtle voice for such a seemingly strong-willed man, a lilting tenor in the deepest ranges, and the potential to hit alto at the highest.  Celeborn listened in wonder as the ruler of Nargothrond began with a Quenya line no Sindarin Elf would dare sing, both for content and for language:

                                      _A i kallaurëa Valinor!_

_                                      Im mar sinome hae_

_                                      Aiya!_

_Im ravello…_

_                                      Maruvan er…*_

          __

          A lament for Valinor, and yet not a dirge for what was lost, but a thoughtful recounting of the hardships of a new land, and the aloneness of those who left loved ones behind, or lost them on the way.  Celeborn was not surprised that many of the Noldor wept, but few did so with heads bent.

          After the first piece, Finrod played a livelier tune that was apparently a version of a Noldorin folk dance, for several people stood up and performed a circle dance, alternating male and female in most cases.  It was a dance Celeborn did not know, although he could recall at least three similar Sindarin ones.  

          More pieces followed, but Finrod kept them short, and soon complained of his fingers and the lack of practice.  He passed the harp back and the court's bard began a series of dancing songs, and these Celeborn did recognize, although the steps were not exactly the same as those he knew from Menegroth.

          "What puzzles you, My Lord?" Galadriel murmured, observing his intense stare and frown. 

          "These dances are similar enough that I feel they are related to ours, but the steps have changed…I see no pattern to the changes."

          She laughed. "Must there be a pattern? One man weaves his own version for the sake of personal pleasure.  And another. And another. Some things are just chance."

          He had to agree, finally.  He felt comfortable enough during one of the slower circle dances to let the lady lead him to the floor and show him the steps. The women on either side were also forgiving of his small mistakes, seeming interested in how he interpreted their style of dance.  For one thing, there was more interplay between the sexes than he was used to.  Men and women met in the middle far more often, and touched frequently, when Sindarin versions placed more emphasis on individual dancing in the outer rings.

          The dancing died down close to dawn, and people began to seek their beds.  Celeborn found himself in the company of Finrod and Orodreth for a small time as talk turned to planning the following days.

          "What says my fair cousin to a bit of hunting tomorrow eve?" Finrod asked with a certain challenging smile. "We're in need of venison."

          "It would be an honor," Celeborn replied politely as Galadriel and Aegnor approached. "Luck would have it that I brought the one horse I am training for hunting."

          Finrod glanced at Galadriel. "Sister, what say you?"

          The golden lady seemed highly amused. "I should not dare interfere with this manly ritual. I shall only be in the way if I joined you."  Her gray glance lingered on Celeborn. "You are an archer, are you not?"

          "It is our way," Celeborn agreed, wanting not to speak of his own skills. "I do not have the arms for spear-hunting."

          Aegnor nodded his agreement. "Then we'll have two bowmen, this time. I alone among my brothers prefer the bow."

          They agreed to time and place, said good night, and at last Celeborn was able to speak to Galadriel. 

          "You know," she said, "that this is a test?"

          He smiled. "Like tonight was a test?"

          Her smile deepened. She paused, then said with laughter in her voice: "It is a…different sort of test."

          "Is that why you do not join us tomorrow? I know very well that you hunt.  I have seen you at it."

          "My brothers will not be satisfied until they have had you alone, and determined your worth; if I go, I will only delay the inevitable."

          "Have no fear for me.  I am no warrior, but I have often participated in sorties and my skills with the bow are…not unimpressive."

          "Which is your way of saying you will probably outshoot Aegnor," she mused. "Ah, that is good.  I should like to have my brothers taken down a notch."

          "And what will you do tomorrow?"

          "We have been working, my maids and myself, on a project that I hope to complete soon.  It will be fine to have a day lacking in distractions."

          He nodded.

          "But I shall see you off all the same," she promised.

          Because there were still plenty of people still in the hall, he did not kiss her hand, but bowed and bid her good night.

+++++++++++

          They congregated at dusk in the courtyard and began to look over the horses, and check weapons. The filly Celeborn brought from Menegroth was named Quesse, for she was light of foot and had a soft, even stride that suited shooting fine.

          He had had the servants plait his hair rather severely to keep it out of the way.  The thick braid reached past the middle of his back so he was able to tuck it underneath his cloak.

          A surplus of kind folk brought out hot drinks, and Galadriel was among them, giving his from her own hand.

          "Although the temptation may be great," she said as he handed back the empty goblet, "try not to shoot my brothers."

          "I will endeavor not to," he replied so solemnly that she laughed. 

          As he mounted, his fine-tuned ears heard the following conversation:

          Orodreth: "So, Sister, I take it this one is more than a passing fancy."

          Galadriel: "You mistake my relationships with yours."

          Aegnor (laughing): "He is pretty, but can he shoot straight?"

          Finrod: "Any Sindar can shoot straight and hit a moving target, little brother. Whether or not he can hunt; that is the question."

          Galadriel: "I will take it very much amiss if he comes back in pieces."

          Orodreth: "Then we will make sure the more pertinent pieces arrive back more or less where they ought."

          Celeborn made a slow show of arranging himself, securing his quiver of arrows. Galadriel's brothers mounted, then, and directing their horses, came even with Celeborn as he waited at the gate. Celeborn presented a perfectly polite and attentive mien, bowing his head to indicate that he would follow.  With a laugh, Finrod took off at a gallop, and his companions brought up close behind him.

          Galadriel raised a hand in farewell, and waiting until they were out of sight before descending back into Nargothrond.

Finrod took the lead, his brothers close behind. Celeborn would not allow himself to be the last, and neither did Quesse, whose fiery spirit was more than equaled by her smooth and quick gait.  Quesse was trained for mounted archery, and such animals were uniquely sensitive to the moods of their riders, more attuned than any Elven steed.

Celeborn would not suffer himself to be left behind, and so Quesse would not as well.

It was curious to watch the Noldo ride. The Noldo were by all accounts aggressive and controlling riders, who seemed less willing to trust their horses.  They controlled more with their heels, and used both hands about their horse's manes.  They gave the impression that they were attempting to be one with their steeds, and that one didn't unsheathe or do anything on horseback but travel quickly and far.

Celeborn, himself an archer raised in the Sindarin style of riding, controlled with his knees and rode one-handed, the better to reach for a weapon in lands potentially unsafe. Riding in forests was itself a tricky business, and one could not depend on having the time to dismount to defend oneself.  This resulted in a style somewhat more detached between rider and mount.  Sindarin horses had to be exceptionally aware of their riders' reactions, whether they would mount or dismount quickly, draw a weapon, or wish to ride hard; all these desires had to be interpreted and acted upon in rapid succession.  Therefore Quesse, highly trained, was also uniquely independent in spirit, an entity who had to act and react with and without a rider.

This gave Sindarin horses a quick eye and quicker temper, the appearance of excessive energy and the ability to sometimes outthink their riders.  Their only flaw, compared to the horses the Noldo were breeding, was that they had no enduring speed.

But hunts did not last for hundreds of miles, and therefore Celeborn had no doubt that Quesse would keep her place among her peers.  They could not ride four abreast in the dense, thin thicket of forest, but they kept in sight of each other until they heard the unmistakable bawling of the hounds on a scent, released before the men had ever mounted.  This batch of Noldo hounds was several generations bred in Middle-earth, although Celeborn had never seen one himself.  While the Sindar rarely domesticated dogs, and did not keep their dogs in packs when they deigned to do so, the Noldo bred them in groups. Celeborn had to admit, the strategy had the potential to work very well.  By the time the pack was adult, an alpha male had asserted his dominance, pack order was assured, and the group hunted as one.  

The bawling grew sharper now, a chorus of canine throats confirming the sighting, and Celeborn turned Quesse towards the sound, as did the three brothers. Quesse at least knew what a dog's howl meant in this situation, though her ears flickered from time to time, unused to the sheer number of voices she was detecting.

They crossed a shallow river. As they drew nearer, Celeborn freed his bow from the back of the saddle and slung it over his shoulder, checking the position of the quiver on his back.  Aegnor was doing the same, although he had to do it one-handed and bent forward to keep his horse up with the others.  Celeborn thought that perhaps a fitting gift might be an archery-trained horse for his fellow archer, but he would wait to see the performance before he judged.

Then they broke into a clearing, almost abreast, and saw immediately why the dogs were so excited. A large, roan-red buck stood trapped against a steep bank, its many-tined antlers lowered against a ring of dogs who, as one, had stopped bawling as soon as Finrod came within hearing distance.  Each dog was large and sleek, muscles sliding effortlessly under short white fur, long tails whipping back and forth in eagerness.  Along with identical white bodies, each hound also sported a pair of large, triangular red ears.  In the darkness those white bodies were easy to see.

"A fine catch!" Orodreth cried.  A little prematurely, Celeborn thought as he watched Finrod to see what he would do.

The king of Nargothrond whistled sharply.  The dogs obediently backed away, leaving a corridor open.  "Let him run!" the golden-haired Elf commanded.  Celeborn glanced at Aegnor.  The other archer had his bow in one hand, but had not reached for his arrows. 

He noticed Celeborn's look and said: "Let the spear-throwers have first chance.  If they fail, which they always do, we will have our time."  

The stag leapt away, a blur of red motion.   Quesse leapt after, determined to keep pace with the other horses, in fact at least a body length ahead.  The stag turned towards the river; Celeborn drew and took a shot, putting an arrow into a tree trunk and deliberately turning the stag away from the river.

"Well done!" Aegnor cried as Finrod rode to the fore, Celeborn's shooting having delayed Quesse enough to allow the others to catch up.

The king threw first, the spear grazing the flank of the big stag and sending it swerving yet again toward the river.

Orodreth threw next, but it was obvious he was throwing to deter the stag's flight, not to strike.  The stag turned as expected.  Finrod and Orodreth dropped back to retrieve their spears, and Aegnor and Celeborn pushed forward.

Sharing a glance, the archers reached for their quivers, knocked their arrows, and released almost simultaneously. Celeborn's arrow found its mark a little too high in the shoulder, owing to a sudden dip in the terrain.  Aegnor's flew over its head, followed by a rueful laugh from the Noldor archer, who had to slow his horse long enough to take the shot, allowing the deer time enough to evade. He caught up soon enough.

Celeborn glanced back as they sped on, watching for Finrod and Orodreth.  Finrod was hard on their heels, his gray eyes bright and determined.  He passed both of them like a wind and made another throw.  Slowed by Celeborn's arrow, the stag was less spry; the spear struck true.

The great animal stumbled, bellowing, took a few more awkward strides, then pitched down a bank, Finrod's spear through its ribcage.

The Noldo drew back their horses in time to avoid the small cliff, but Quesse would have none of that and jumped it.  Celeborn judged the landing would be harsh, so leapt off at the last moment, pulling himself up onto a nearby tree by a hardy branch and watched Quesse below him take the landing with a heavy stop, which would have thrown Celeborn over her head.  Celeborn gave a displeased sound and Quesse's ears lowered as she paced below.

The Noldo came around the bend, level with the riderless horse, and their confused searching looks finally found their way up the bank and to Celeborn, perched and frowning on a limb. Aegnor left out a relieved laugh, which seemed to set off his brothers, who began to chuckle good-naturedly at the Sindar's equally amusing expression and predicament.  

"Do you wood Elves have wings?" Orodreth quipped.

"No," Celeborn muttered, swinging down, "we leave those to our younger horses."  He slid down the bank, and the brothers dismounted, smiling.  Apparently, Celeborn had passed the test.

++++++++

Galadriel was sitting with her ladies, their project spread between them, wielding a needle as aggressively as she would a sword.  Although she preferred more athletic expressions, there were times when more domestic matters were preferable.  However, Galadriel was no quiet and biddable needlewoman.  She attacked this skill as she would any other, skillfully, directly, and with some ambition.  Her ladies, consigned to more minor parts of this particular project, talked quietly amongst themselves, watching the embroidered pattern emerge under her fingers. Silver thread flashed against a sea a soft black fabric, minute gems glinting among the whorls of design.  

She was concluding the last section, her ladies adding their own finishing touches, when familiar horns rang from the courtyard.  She nodded at one of her cousins who stood and slipped through the door, and added her last stitch calmly.

"The greatest stag ever seen, My Lady," Vana breathed on returning. "His Lordship Celeborn's arrow took first blood, but it was Lord Finrod who made the kill."

Galadriel was not surprised by this conclusion, nodding her thanks.  Finally they stood and she gathered the fabric in her arms, carrying where it could be laid out and checked one final time for small errors.

"I take it we feast tonight," she said as they left for the main hall.  "Where are they now?"

"Where else?" Vana laughed. "The baths!"

Galadriel mused on the irony of circumstances that led her brothers to view Celeborn in all his natural beauty before she ever would.  At the hunt as well, the unworthy cretins.

At that very moment, Finrod was laughing as Orodreth lent a strong hand in scrubbing his back. "'Twas the stuff of legend; at least good enough for a song!"

Celeborn, slightly removed and getting used to the idea of bathing with his peers, shook his head, and with a crooked smile glanced at Aegnor who was just then slipping into the heated pool. The youngest of the sons of Finarfin had taken it upon himself to stand by Celeborn during the joking, deftly softening the effect of what could have been a real verbal razing had Finrod or Orodreth taken a dislike to the Sindarin noble.

Aegnor lowered himself carefully, a blissful expression suffusing his face as the hot water began to penetrate stiff muscles. "A song, I hope, of the great prowess of our kinsman, whose arrow hit when none of us could make the first strike?"

"Oh, I'm sure that'll be part of it," Orodreth returned, with a sly look at the back of Finrod's head. 

Celeborn sighed, dipping back his head to let the hot water run through his hair.  Sliding it away from his face with both hands, he closed his eyes.  The silence about him prompted him to open them again.  All three brothers were looking at him. "What?"

"Your hair almost looks…" Orodreth said, nodding at his wet head. "…almost normal."

"If you mean it darkens when it's wet, yes.  That's common among Teleri. Doesn't yours?"

Finrod grinned, dunked down, and emerged, his golden hair only slightly darkened, almost to a pale golden brown. 

Celeborn sighed again. "Something else to envy the House of Finarfin for," he said, with an exaggerated shake of the head. "That and a surplus of hot water."

"You have hot water in Menegroth."

"Not this plentiful, and pervasive.  How many springs are there?"

"Twelve," Finrod replied promptly. "And every room receives through aqueducts. There are ten communal pools like this one throughout, as well."

"Perhaps our kinsman might be persuaded to make his home here, considering all of Nargothrond's many…temptations?" Orodreth suggested, none too subtle.

Even Aegnor seemed to think that was too forward. "Brother!  What ARE you implying?"

Finrod cut in smoothly. "Nothing. As always, his tongue runs before his brain. Much like his ill-trained hounds, I might add."

Orodreth aimed a sharp smile at his brother and tossed the sponge he had been using into Finrod's lap. "I thought I was saying what you were thinking, ambitious brother."  Pale gray eyes slid and seemed to examine Celeborn. "Surely Thingol's Ear knows every secret thought behind every spoken word?"

Celeborn rolled his shoulders in the hot water. "Perhaps so.  I always supposed it rude to speak of it unless asked directly."

Aegnor laughed.  "What say you, then?  If asked directly, what would you say of Orodreth's maladroit comment?"

"I would say that this is marvelous generosity, considering how the hunt began with the promise of "parts" of me returning."

Orodreth stared, then blushed. Finrod laughed aloud. "Oh, well said!  Not half as oblivious as we hoped for, our naïve Sindar cousin."

"It was a joke," Orodreth said in a low voice, defensively. "Aegnor didn't even think you could shoot straight."

"No, I said he might be too pretty to shoot straight," Aegnor corrected him, then he too blushed and looked away from Celeborn.

The dynamic between the brothers was potentially as fascinating as the hunt itself, but Celeborn was of a mind to enjoy his immersion while he could.  "Peace," he said, raising his hands. "If you can concede that I've passed this part of the test, perhaps we can enjoy ourselves without flaying each other, for a small while."

"Ay," Finrod agreed. "Indeed, it was a test, and you have survived it.  I am now quite certain that my sister chose you for other skills besides looking beautiful."

Celeborn saved that comment away for another time, and nodded cautiously.  He did not fool himself that this was the end of the affair, but allowed himself to hope for respite.

"Peace," Aegnor agreed, his blush receding.  He offered the sponge up.  "Shall I scrub your back for you, Cousin?"

Celeborn pulled his hair forward in answer, turning his back to Aegnor. "I take it you Noldo have little modesty."

Finrod said: "Not true.  We have a great deal of modesty.  We just seem to have less than you wood Elves."  He paused. "I saw you dancing last night."

More observant than Celeborn had counted on. It seems they had underestimated each other.

"What about it?" Orodreth wanted to know, having reversed position and letting his older brother administer to his back.

"Our kinsman was not so used to our sort of dancing.  Not so used to touching women, to be exact. He was too well-bred to be scandalized, but he seemed to be somewhat hesitant in joining us."

"Not at all," protested Celeborn. "I did not know many of the steps. The dances have…diverged somewhat from their common original."

"Yes, many things seem to have 'diverged,'" Finrod agreed.  "Shall I ask a forward question?"

Celeborn nodded.  He was sure this was the topic of conversation he had been waiting for.

"How exactly did you two get around to expressing your …attachment to each other?"

Orodreth and Aegnor could not disguise their curiosity as well, although both valiantly attempted to.

"I suppose we might never had, which is entirely my fault, except that circumstances with the king forced the timing a bit."

Finrod accurately read between the lines. "My sister felt she had to tell you, considering the situation?"

"Something like."

"Were you surprised?" Aegnor asked eagerly from behind Celeborn, forgetting to act uninterested.

"Yes.  I thought it had to be someone else, except that I could not figure who it was. "  For Aegnor's benefit, he added: "But whoever it was, I despised him utterly."

Orodreth chuckled at that. "That's not like our Artanis at all. Did you know her other name? Nerwen.  She's always been very straight about her thoughts, very direct. This new sister is strange to us, this quiet, inward Galadriel."

Celeborn looked at Orodreth with understanding eyes. Orodreth's less enthusiastic attitude toward Celeborn was beginning to become less mysterious. "You thought it was my doing, this change?"

Finrod's sharp glance at his brother confirmed Celeborn's suspicions that Orodreth's inner thoughts had not been shared with the other two. 

Orodreth nodded reluctantly.  

Finrod dropped his sponge in disgust, shaking his head. 

"Artanis was like that almost from the first time she came to us in Menegroth," Celeborn said gently. "It was not my doing."

"You're an idiot," Finrod said, lightly cuffing his brother with the flat of his hand. "Galadriel changes for no one but Galadriel.  You should know that."  He sighed. "If anything, it is Melian's influence.  That Maian queen of Elwë's.  Now that's a role model for any ambitious woman."

Aegnor chuckled. "Is she as beautiful as they say, this Queen Melian?"

"As lovely as evening," Celeborn said. "Hair as black of midnight and eyes as green as the deepest forest."

Orodreth's dark eyebrows rose. "Then I suppose one can't blame Elwë for staying in Doriath for such a woman."

Celeborn merely smiled. 

Eventually a young messenger dared enter into the steamy sanctum, bringing with him wine as if in defense.

"Is my sister impatient?" Finrod asked. 

"She asks when we might have your esteemed company for the late evening meal, My Lord."

Finrod raised a brow at Celeborn, obviously translating such a message into the sarcastic tone with which it must have first been spoken.

"You may tell my patient and loving sister that we should emerge triumphantly within the hour, all four of us," the lord replied smoothly. "Please leave the wine."

When the boy had retreated, Celeborn allowed himself to share a smile with Finrod. 

"If we're eating venison tonight," Aegnor said, oblivious, "I hope they'll bring up that old vintage you've been hoarding for half a century."

"Why should I spend that on my kin?" Finrod complained good-naturedly. "I'm keeping it for someone I truly want to impress.  I've no hope for you two."

Orodreth promptly threw a sponge at him.

++++++++++++

The brothers apparently were unwilling to conclude the male bonding quite so soon and had had Celeborn's clothes brought to him from his rooms.  One of the servants offered to stay behind and tend his hair, which sent the other three into gales of laughter.

However, the servant did stay and turned out to be something of an adept at the art, even to the point of adequately mimicking the style Celeborn preferred, hair down but with the sides braiding out of the face. Of all the brothers, Finrod's hair was the longest, its golden beauty making up for the carelessness with which it was tended.  Like many who aspired to beauty, most Noldo kept their hair long, but few apparently felt it necessary to bind it.  Finrod wore a circlet of twined silver and gold on his brow that served that purpose.  Yet another cultural difference, Celeborn thought as the braiding was completed, and he was able to rise.

"Ah, resplendent," Aegnor acknowledged with a teasing smile.  

Entering with them into the great hall, Celeborn reflected that they were being very generous.  He was too different from them to allow familiarity to breed easily, but even Orodreth seemed to be making the attempt.  He strode in, and he was of the same race, of equal height and power, but he was not one of them, not truly. There were too many variations on experiences, upbringing, manner and style, like their horses and their hounds.  

But, he supposed, as he saw Galadriel turn her head at their entrance, it was those differences that gave life its vibrancy. 

+++++++++

That night, Finrod sang "The Lay of Quesse," a tribute to a spirited Sindarin horse who did not hesitate to risk her rider in the pursuit of the stag.  The humor of the song lay in the wry use of words that bordered on sarcasm, as the "heroic steed" left her rider up in a tree while she leapt "agilely" after her quarry.  As more and more details were revealed about Quesse, even the most ignorant of the Noldo audience had to realize of whom Finrod was really singing.  Galadriel, at Celeborn's side, was smiling outright, as the "noble rider" shot the stag from the "silver tree," admonishing his horse: "Even in the heat of pursuit, always know where your loyalty lies."

Celeborn rather suspected Finrod of double entendre, but chose to interpret the song at its simplest level.

The applause afterward was laced with laughter, with Celeborn's nearest dinner companions wanting to know if there was a seed of truth to the circumstances of the song.  Galadriel herself was curious to know the details.  He merely replied that Finrod was no liar.

They ate venison that night.  Dancers performed for them, their elaborate turns and graceful movements entrancing the eye.  Celeborn kept half an eye on their trailing garments, but most of his attention was on Galadriel.

"My brothers seem to have the good taste to allow you to be acceptable," she observed wryly.  "How was the experience for you?"

"Your brothers are very different from one another," he said.

"Meaning Aegnor fell into your lap from the start, Finrod withheld judgment and Orodreth was an annoyance."

He lifted eyebrows at her, smiling. "Observant as always."

"It could be worse.  Imagine if I were a daughter of Fëanor."

He suppressed a shudder. "I would rather not, great lady."

"No," she said, her eyes darkening. "No, I imagine not.  Forgive me. For us, it is merely a matter of dislike, for we cannot disassociate ourselves from them, no matter their crimes.  For you, it must be …rather different."

"For any Teleri, it must be so.  I can be generous and think Finarfin's children spirited and ambitious, but for Fëanor's….no."

"So you agree with Thingol's conservatism?" she inquired.

"Agree?  At times I AM my lord's conservatism.  He has not the obligations of flesh (as you do) to urge him to be friendlier with the sons of Fingolfin and Fëanor, so he follows his better judgment in protecting his people."

"Perhaps he is the wisest of us all," she mused. "Is it wise to willingly keep company with murderers under _geis_?"

She used the older form of fate-obligation, a word he had never heard voiced, and only seen written in the oldest of tomes. _Geis_ was Valar-driven fate, the compulsion to complete a task under the promise or oath, or die.

"You know the word?" she asked at his look.

"Yes, but only referred to, never in speech.  It is a hard word."

"You are among people living with the shadow of a _geis_ that we willingly took upon ourselves, never understanding the seriousness of the task we vowed to fulfill. Many have conveniently forgotten the oath they took."  Her gray glance was grave. "I have not."

Immediately he knew she had foreseen; it was in her glance.

"Is it very bad?" he asked simply.

She nodded.

"Ah."

"Cousin Celeborn! Come away from my sister a moment!"

It was Orodreth, obviously much into his cups, reeling between the support of two sets of feminine shoulders.

"Yes, Cousin Orodreth?"

"Spread some of your joy among us, pretty lord. There are others pining to hear ought of Menegroth and Doriath.  They have waited patiently while my beauteous and covetous sibling has monopolized you to a shocking degree."

Galadriel sighed. "I have done without my lord's company all evening while you four cavorted about the forest in the pretense of providing larder to the king's table. I hardly think I was covetous today."

A small silence had descended, puzzling Celeborn, until he realized that Galadriel had named him 'my lord' in the way of a wife for a husband.  He smiled at Galadriel's sudden uncertain look, taking her hand and raising it to his lips in a reciprocal salute.

He stood slowly and smiled placatingly at Orodreth. "I am your servant, then, Cousin."

"I'm sure if I loved men, I would be swooning at the mere idea," his drunken cousin replied. His lovely supports laughed.

Celeborn followed him to where Finrod sat among older Noldor in a more solemn circle of companions.  Orodreth saluted Finrod, presenting Celeborn, then left.

"He is not half as drunk as he likes to imagine," Finrod said, smiling. He motioned to the empty chair beside him. "Sit, Cousin, and give us a taste of your wisdom."

The Sindar nodded to his new acquaintances, and obeyed.  Here, then, were Finrod's advisors, among them even a few white-haired Naugrim.  The king introduced him to his chief steward, his master delver, his librarian, his master craftsman and others of higher station in Nargothrond, men and women with black hair grown to their ankles, double expressions of age and endurance.  The Naugrim nodded with jerky movements, gruff and unlovely, but Celeborn saw that their bright eyes missed nothing.  One of them was looking at his hair with an artist's appreciative glance, leading him to believe that this was the silversmith.

"You are, then, Thingol's chief councilor?" Alcar, Finrod's steward, inquired. "Whom we have heard named his 'ear'?"

Celeborn demurred.  "I am not his chief councilor, sir, only a kinsman who has his ear in matters within my scope.  He has defensive, offensive, and monetary advisors.  He relies upon me in matters of persons and situations, and will listen when I have opinions outside my scope."

There were sidelong glances at this.  He was younger than many in the company, and to their eyes a wide-eyed puppy, he was sure. Once again he was the pretty stranger, an exotic fixture.  

"Forgive us, My Lord," Alcar said. "You are not what we expected."

"I imagine not," Celeborn replied blandly. "I think many overestimate my influence from rumor and underestimate it by sight. I am young, yes, and not much of consequence in rank, but I have only one matter of pride. I have proven myself to my king, and that is all that matters."

"Well said, Cousin," Finrod approved. "He is too handsome for his own good, but let not his looks deceive you, my lords. He is wise in both speech and manner, and not the least in his choice of friends and allies."

This was an underhanded compliment to the present company and a sly reference to Galadriel, Celeborn was sure.

"May we ask you of matters regarding Menegroth?" a woman asked, Finrod's chief librarian.  

"I will tell you what I can," he said cautiously. 

Alcar intervened quickly. "Do not fear us.  It is of everyday matters we wish to know, of the running of a kingdom, of your king's organization of servants.  We are not interested in martial matters.  Of those, we trust to our own king and in the builders of Nargothrond."

"Then I will help in any way I may," he said.

+++++++++++

Galadriel finally interrupted, many hours later, as dawn began to break. Celeborn's muscles were beginning to ache from the earlier exercise and then the later forced stillness of the gathering.

"My gracious lords," said she. "Our guest is surely weary.  He and my brother hunted most rigorously earlier in the night, and now you quiz him into the ground. Grant him his respite."

There was mutual agreement, although Celeborn could tell this would not be the last of the meetings with these people before he left.  He bowed and let the lady take his arm.

"Thank you," he murmured feelingly as she led him from the hall, "I was starting to think in circles."

"Take another hot bath before you sleep," she advised. "I imagine the hunt was not leisurely."

"It wasn't," he agreed. "I am sorry to abandon you for so long."

"Finrod must have his due, and I do not begrudge him your company.  He will not always have such ready access to it."  They halted at the parting of the ways. "I am glad for you that he values you so well. I would that the two men I love the most should value each other."

He touched her cheek contemplatively. "That time in the hall…"

"Did you mind terribly?  It was not planned."

"I did not mind; I cared only for your reputation among your own people."

"My reputation can only improve in your company, my lord," she replied, eyes glinting.  She returned the gesture. "It is rare to see your eyes in this early light," she said of the dawn illumination in these upper levels of the kingdom. "They are as the vault of heaven."

Despite the heat that came to his cheeks, he could not help but smile.

"Ah, I hope you always blush, so," she said. "Good night."

"Good night."

++++++++++++

          He awoke late in the day, and despite the soaking he had indulged in before going to bed, could feel the strain of the previous day's exertions in his arms and thighs, a slight and aching twinge that told him he did not ride enough.

          The servants were there again to help him in the bath, clothe him and dress his hair, and he allowed it without demur.

          He fell into a rhythm at Nargothrond.  Sleep through the early day, dine at dusk, dance, ride or hunt the night away, and renew the cycle. Some days were quieter than others, spent in closer and smaller groups, sometimes with Galadriel alone or with her and her brothers. A weight he had not known he was bearing seemed to lessen on his shoulders. Nothing was expected but that he should enjoy himself.  If his counsel was sought, it was not for matters dire.

          And always, there was Galadriel.  They rode out together more often than not, and it was during these times, with not even a lady in waiting hovering about, that their spirits seemed to touch more and more easily.  There was little awkwardness or shyness anymore, and they were beginning to understand each other with merely a glance, a skill only intimates tended to acquire after long acquaintance.

          One night, a month from the day he had arrived, they were watering their horses at the river and watching the moon rise over the hills to the east.  Galadriel had been so introspective and quiet that Celeborn had been loathe to break her mood.  Finally, she turned and took a bundle that he had mistaken as blankets from the back of her horse and unwrapped the fabric to reveal a soft length of midnight black material that, as it fell open in her hands, revealed a blossoming of silver vines and jewels.  He peered at it in awe, not certain what to make of such a fine thing, until she spread her hands and showed him the full, inimitable pattern.  There, finely and painstakingly embroidered, was the White Tree of Eressëa, from which his name was devised.  She lifted it and he raised his hands to receive it, but all the while his mind was amazed.

          "Surely, this…" he murmured, at a loss.  He had not been so dumbfounded since the day he had learned that she loved him. "…by your hand?"

          "Yes," she said with a smile. "Would you not put it on?"

          He swung it about and brought it up over his shoulders, amazed that such a light material could feel so solid and warm against him.  There was some craft in her weaving, he surmised. On the edge at his throat he found the pin to secure it, silver and in the shape of a leaf.  Finally, he pulled his hair through and settled the cloak across his shoulders, letting her see the outcome of her labor.

          "I am all amazed," he said, "that you should give me this wondrous thing…"

          She smoothed the edges of it with her hands, her eye momentarily critical of her work, before she looked up and smiled. "Beauty to beauty," she said. "You are most fair, My Lord."

          There was such fire in her eyes that he could only flush as he took her hand. "We have sayings about the benefits of beauty."

          "Ah, so do we.  We say: "beauty wins no wars" and "merit before beauty."  What do you say?"

          "We say: "beauty gives no warmth"." 

          She stared into his eyes and slid a hand about his waist, under the protection of the cloak. "Ah, now, I cannot agree with that. Is this not a beauteous thing, and isn't it warm? Aren't thou most beauteous, and do I not bear thy warmth in my very soul?"

          The heat climbed higher in his face.  "I do not think that was the literal meaning…" he managed, and brought his arm about her, bringing her within the protection of the cloak and close against him.  She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and was still for a long moment.

          Finally, she said: "I have deceived you."

          "How so?" he asked, although he suspected he already knew.

          "Melian wrote."

          "Ah.  Then my visit is at an end."

          She did not reply. At length she said: "I imagined bringing you here and convincing you to stay with me, by any means in my power.  Coercion, if I had to.  Pleading."

          "Tears?" he guessed, seeing them glint upon her cheek. 

          "I had not planned that," she sighed as he brushed the moist trails with his fingers. "I am too proud."

          He knew that to be a truth, but not the truth of the moment.  She was too honorable to use underhanded tactics, and he wondered if seduction was something she had contemplated.

          "I cannot stay," he reminded her gently.

          "I know."

          He kissed her then, because it seemed the natural outcome of all that had come before, but he could not have predicted how very good it felt to be so close to her and how, once learning the way of it, how hard it would be to stop.  The whole sky was ablaze with the blessings of starlight above them, but all he could feel was the warmth of her arms about him, the weight of her against him under the cloak, and her mouth taking and giving in equal parts until all there was in the whole night was Galadriel.

          It was not unanticipated, Melian's letter and his summons.  He spent the last evening with Galadriel alone, with words and in silence, the press of a hand more eloquent than any declaration.

          "Do you still think we shall have many meetings and partings?" he asked, recalling that day in Menegroth when she had seemed to see so much of their future.

          "I think it still," she affirmed. "I am determined not to be distressed by fate.  We will have what happiness we can take for ourselves.  Perhaps it will force us to appreciate the times we do have in each other's company."  Gray eyes looked at him thoughtfully. "I do not see much future for the Noldor, if I must admit to the truth.  What happened in Alqualondë, and the oaths said before…they can only spell doom.  I do not want your fate entwined with ours."

          "It is too late for that," he told her. "And who is to say?  Perhaps your fate will instead entwine with mine, _melthiliel_."

          Much of that conversation was on his mind as he left his escort, and headed due east to the Falls of Sirion, intending to follow the river north to Doriath, as was conventional.  Quesse already knew the route, which allowed his mind to wander until finally they were at the great Falls.  

          Celeborn dismounted, and led Quesse to the water's edge in a peaceful area so that she could drink.  It had turned into a warm day.  As she bent to the water, he filled his own flash and splashed water over his face.  He had long ago carefully packed away the cloak for safekeeping, and even the thin tunic he wore was moist.  Lifting his head, he saw that he was not alone.

          Not far north of where he sat by the river's edge stood a horse and rider.  The horse was Noldor, and he supposed the rider was, too, although no Noldor he had ever seen.  Bright reddish copper hair fell straight and shining down the stranger's back and over his wide shoulders.  He sat with his head forward, leaning against his horse's neck, with his hands crossed in a curious way, one favoring the other.  Even at the distance, Celeborn could see his eyes were gray.

          Celeborn nodded to the red-haired Noldor, and received a hesitant nod back.  Then the stranger turned his horse's head and came south along the edge of the water, finally appearing within a few yards before the rider dismounted one-handed.  Quesse's head was already up and she was eying this new situation with alert ears.

          "I thought you were a water spirit," the Noldor said, with a wry smile. "Else I might have hailed you earlier."  Those gray eyes were examining him rather more finely than even Celeborn was used to. "Maedhros of Lothlann at your service. I am making my way to Nargothrond by way of Dor-Lómin."

          Of course Celeborn knew the name.  There was not a single Elf who did not know the names of the sons of Fëanor. He bowed politely. "Celeborn of Doriath.  I am returning from Nargothrond."

          "Ah. Then you must have been guesting with Cousin Finrod?"

          "Yes.  And you with Lord Fingon?"

          "Indeed.  'Tis the season for travel, apparently."  He was still staring. "I had not heard the name before."

          "I am distant kinsman to King Thingol, and also related to the wife of Finarfin."

          "Ah, so you're kin, are you?  Yes, the Teleri hair gives it away."

          Celeborn knew he should smile in response, but Maedhros's peculiar emphasis on 'Teleri' made him uneasy.  After all, under all of this politeness was an Elf who had killed Teleri, perhaps even some of Celeborn's distant kin. 

          "But I suppose I shouldn't be talking about distinctive hair color." Maedhros tugged at a lock of blazing hair.  It was an amazingly vivid hue, Celeborn admitted. Almost like a smoldering fire. 

          "Would you drink?" he said after a moment, startled at his own absent-mindedness.  He had been blocking Maedhros's route to the water's edge.

          "My thanks."  The son of Fëanor led his horse through, and Celeborn signaled Quesse back to make room, in case either were skittish.  He checked the saddlebags, securing the water flask. When he turned, he found the tall Elf watching him avidly.  It was the sort of intense regard Celeborn knew of old, although it was rarely so focused, even in Nargothrond.  

          "Did Lord Finrod know of your arrival?" he asked. "He did not mention the possibility of meeting you upon the road."

          "I do not often plan such things," the man replied dismissively.

          No, a son of Fëanor would not have to, Celeborn mused. 

          "Are you great friends, then, you and Finrod?" Maedhros asked, patting his horse absently while he regarded the other steadily.

          "Not great friends.  I was invited by Lady Galadriel…you would know her as Artanis, I believe?"

          Maedhros's eyebrows went up. "Ah, yes, I would at that. She lived in Doriath until recently, did she not?"  A sharp smile and a laugh let Celeborn know Maedhros did not particularly care for Galadriel. "You must get along very well, to have her invite you into Nargothrond."  There was a question there that was rather impolitely forward, so Celeborn chose not to respond to it.

          But there was more disrespect to follow.

++++++++

          Finrod had, by way of Fingon, received a missive that had agitated him enough to ride out quickly on his fastest horse.

          At the turning at the Falls of Sirion, he stopped.  There was Maedhros, as he feared, with Celeborn; Quesse was between them, and her rider had a hold on her mane.  Celeborn's expression was agitated; Maedhros's was amused.  They both turned to look at Finrod.

          He was happy to see Maedhros's smile die and turn sour, and equally happy to see Celeborn mount Quesse, and without a backward glance, ride to meet him.

          "Is everything…?" Finrod began.

          "I do not like your cousin," the Sindar noble said flatly.

          It was a startlingly pronouncement, both in content and tone, that said that Maedhros had managed to be his typical overbearing self.  Finrod opened his mouth to reply, but Celeborn abruptly shook his head, turned Quesse, and trotted off, following the road north.

          Maedhros strolled over, half an eye on his departure. "Exquisite piece," he drawled. "Didn't seem to care for me, though."

          "He is intended for Artanis," Finrod said coldly.

          The redheaded warrior smiled. "Is that so? I wonder then, that she isn't here to defend him from me, as you obviously are."

          "I know how you are."

          "Now, now.  No harm done. Artanis may have him with my blessing."

          "She will hardly be cheered by such a statement."

          "Then I suppose you shouldn't tell her…" Maedhros smiled. "…should you?"

_Some Notes:_

*Rough translation of Finrod's song (my Elvish sucks):

Ah the golden light (of) Valinor!

I dwell in this place

Behold!

I strayed.

I will abide alone.

Doriath in the land of Beleriand (in Middle-earth):

Thingol: king, Sindar

Melian: queen, Maian (elder race)

Celeborn: Thingol's brother's grandson; later, Galadriel's husband

Celebrimbor: Elf smith and lord, admirer of Galadriel

Menegroth: the caves that were carved in Doriath, where Thingol rules

Girdle: spell that Melian erected to keep enemies out of Doriath

Naugrim: the race of dwarves

Nargothrond: an underground realm carved by Finrod and the Naugrim

Exiles of Valinor (the blessed realm in the west):

Noldor: one tribe of elves of Valinor

Teleri: one tribe of elves of Valinor and Middle-earth

Galadriel: daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen (who was related to Thingol)

Fëanor: Galadriel's half-uncle, maker of the Silmarils and leader of the rebellion in Valinor, that resulted in the slaying of many Teleri, and Exile to Middle-earth

Fingolfin: Fëanor's eldest half-brother, King of the Noldor in Beleriand

Finarfin: Fëanor's half-brother, father of Galadriel, Finrod, Angrod and Orodreth.

Languages:

Quenya and Telerin were used almost exclusively in Valinor.

Sindarin, related to Telerin, was used in Middle-earth.


	3. Yielding

Yielding  
Sequel to "When First We Parted" and "Horses and Hounds"  
By Laura L.  
   
WARNING: Some implications of bi-sexuality; nothing graphic.

  
  
If there was a long silence between Doriath and Nargothrond, Galadriel laid the blame to distance, and her kinsman's anger, for King Elu Thingol had yet to soften his pride. Her letters to Celeborn remained unanswered, but this did not strike her as unusual. Celeborn was not an avid correspondent.  
  
When word came from Menegroth that Thingol's ire had eased and his kinsmen were once again welcome, a letter from Melian followed hard upon it.  
  
Celeborn, she wrote, was behaving rather strangely. He had returned, those months before, quiet and introspective, and had then progressed into a nervous temper so unlike him that finally Melian had confronted her husband's kinsman. Apparently, Celeborn had met someone on the road to Doriath. What occurred at that meeting, where and when and what was said, she could not say, but that she wished Galadriel in Menegroth as soon as possible.  
  
The daughter of Finarfin was no lack-wit; she herself had spent a month studiously avoiding the company of one Maedhros, son of Fëanor, who had arrived the very day Celeborn had left Nargothrond. This coincidence immediately sent Galadriel into a righteous rage.  
  
Had Finrod the foresight of the Valar, he would have wished himself far away, even to the farthest reaches of Arda, for his sister now understood that he had kept this secret from her. Well she remembered the day he had sped out to meet Maedhros, and never a word of a meeting with Celeborn had he uttered to her, although he knew that she loved the Sindarin nobleman to distraction.  
  
Finrod was presiding over open council and nodding his golden head over what his steward was saying, when he spied Galadriel entering at a fast clip, face white in fury and with Melian's letter clutched still in her hand. His natural self-preservation gave alarm, and he moved to intercept her course, fearing casualties in the wake of her anger.  
  
"You will tell me of Maedhros and Celeborn, Brother, and you will tell me now." Galadriel's gray eyes blazed forth her determination.  
  
Finrod waved for the attendants to go and took a deep breath. "I know less than one might think, Nerwen." Then he explained the scene that had unfolded before him as he had approached the Falls of Sirion, and of Celeborn's declamation of Maedhros. "There seemed no real affront, in my eyes. I assumed some too-familiar rudeness on Maedhros's part, but that is nothing new. Fingon indulges him no end, since his loss."  
  
Galadriel made an impatient sound. "The loss of one's hand at the torment of Morgoth is no light matter, but he presses good will on all sides, and this newest insult being not the least of it."  
  
"Surely, you don't think he abused Celeborn in some way?"  
  
"Melian is concerned enough to say that his manner has so altered that she wishes me in Menegroth immediately."  
  
Finrod's optimistic assessment of his Fëanorian cousin plummeted. "Then whatever he did or said figures as abuse, if Celeborn was hurt by it."  
  
Galadriel nodded curtly. "I will return to Menegroth, and I am going to do what I can for Celeborn. If I find that Maedhros's rudeness encroached upon abuse, you may rest assured that my enmity will know no bounds. Let Maedhros go where he will, he will find no safety with me."  
  
Finrod sighed, but took his sister's hand in mutual understanding. "I will send you my servants to help you with preparations."  
  
Word ran ahead of her, and by the time she was entering her rooms, her ladies in waiting were already in the middle of serious packing. Her cousin Vana, as always, had taken initiative, and had correctly ascertained her cousin's state of mind.  
  
After gratefully embracing the woman, Galadriel set to prioritizing the organizing, then sat down to write a fast letter that would precede her by a day. In it, she thanked her Maian friend, assured her that she was equally concerned, and that she would be arriving as soon as possible. She added that she knew the name of the culprit, and hoped that the effects of what was said and did could be healed.  
  
  
  
  
Thingol's steward met her as her ladies began to direct the servants to take their baggage to Galadriel's suites in Menegroth. He bowed courteously at her nod of recognition. "His Highness asks you to attend upon him and the lady queen as soon as you are willing."  
  
"Give me leave to change, and I will gladly go to them. In the great hall?"  
  
"Their private reception room, if it please you."  
  
That was less surprising, now that she perceived their concerns about Celeborn. "It pleases me well."  
  
Vana approached as soon as the steward departed, ready to hear her cousin's wishes.   
  
"Shake out one of the velvet dresses and set up my vanity," she told the girl. "It seems things are far more dire than I supposed, if His Highness is so urgent."  
  
It was less than an hour from her arrival that Galadriel was admitted into the more intimate reception room of Their Highnesses. Between stables and suites, she had little time to prepare herself for this meeting, and half expected to find Celeborn in the halls.  
  
But he was not present anywhere, not even in their company. She suppressed the growing dread that had begun with Melian's letter, and did obeisance to the royal pair.   
  
Thingol was, as always, reticent but generous in his courteous nod and faint smile. His hair, a dark silver plaited in a multiplicity of braids, was surmounted by a crown of autumn leaves. The people of Doriath observed the course of the seasons where the Noldor barely acknowledged their passing. It was a tradition Galadriel thought lovely. Melian, her own black hair loose and crowned similarly, rose and gave her a kinswoman's embrace.  
  
"Long have I wished to see thee, Galadriel," she murmured. "Long have I wished to impart the misgivings of my heart to thee. Little did I know that I should suffer so, my confidante cleft from me so suddenly."  
  
They had a chair set down for her, and there she told them of her stay in Nargothrond. When it came to Maedhros's stay in Finrod's kingdom, Melian's pale green eyes sharpened.  
  
"I take it you little care for the One-handed," Thingol remarked, his chin in his hand, his keen gray eyes taking in her pale face.  
  
"I make no secret of it," she returned. "I have no love for many of my cousins, especially that one. He trades too much on his handicap, expecting forgiveness for his many transgressions."  
  
"Yet Fingon son of Fingolfin appreciates him," the king said with a small smile.  
  
"Fingon and Maedhros have always been like two leaves off the same branch," Galadriel declared dismissively. "But I beg pardon…where _is_ Celeborn?"  
  
Melian exchanged a somber glance with her husband. "From day to day, we have no way of knowing. Some days he is here or in his chambers, then some days not a one knows his whereabouts."  
  
Galadriel did not have to ask if he knew of her arrival that day. It was implicit in Melian's tone. "Perhaps you should tell me of Celeborn now."  
  
Thingol said: "For my part, I know nothing. He is mannerly; he is quiet. He is elusive, yes, but will not tell me aught."  
  
"I have spoken to him on many occasions," Melian added. "It pains me that he is so terse with me, unwilling to divulge his private thoughts. I dare not bring up your name, for once I did so, and he was agitated and defensive."  
  
Galadriel sat with hands clenched in her lap. "How have I deserved this? We parted sadly but amiably, with no ill will…quite the contrary! We spoke of the joy of meeting again."  
  
"He met Maedhros on the road," Melian surmised.  
  
"My brother has told me of the circumstances of their meeting, or at least the end of it. He said the Celeborn showed a marked dislike for Maedhros, although he saw no sign of abuse."  
  
"There was no fight?"  
  
"Not that Finrod saw. He assumed some rudeness on Maedhros's part, for we all know that one's temperament. Certainly, Celeborn would not begin a conflict with him."  
  
"Never," Thingol agreed. "It is not his way." The king frowned. "Proud is my kinsman," he said, and at Melian's look, added: "Nay, you need not say it is a family failing, Wife. I know it well. Celeborn has always been even-tempered, truly; he runs neither hot nor cold. When angry, he is sharp, and in all ways he is forthright. You have a right to be concerned over this new mood of his, and I now must add my own misgivings."  
  
"Kinswoman," Melian entreated, leaning forward to take Galadriel's hands. "I beg thee. Uncover this mystery of our Celeborn's heaviness, for there can be no symptom's physic if the healer cannot know the cause."  
  
"I will," Galadriel assured her. "For love of him, I will do all in my power."  
  
She left with many assurances on both sides, and went to check on the unpacking. Her ladies had already finished and were tending their own needs, so she went then to Celeborn's chambers, but the servants there reported that he was not within. They did not know where he was, but would relay that she had asked after him when he returned.  
  
She wondered at how true these statements were. Were Celeborn's servants lying for him? Did they in fact know where he was, if in fact he was not there in his chambers at all? She visited Vana in her chambers and helped her cousin finish her unpacking, and spoke of her doubts.  
  
"Well," her practical cousin declared, "there is more than one path to take, if you wish to know the truth."  
  
Galadriel lifted a brow at that, and listened as Vana continued, all the while arranging her small reminders of Menegroth about her room. "Or should I say more than one river to travel? You can work against the current, or with it, as it were."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
Vana glanced at her wryly. "You were ever too forthright for court politics," she commented, "else you would know of what I speak." She laughed at Galadriel's blank look. "The servants, dear coz, the servants. If indeed they are lying under the wishes of their master, you can use your own servants to ascertain the truth."  
  
"Spying? That's hardly dignified."  
  
"Yes, well, so it is, but effective. That is our "against the current" option. The other is perhaps more to your taste."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"Why, win his servants to your cause."  
  
Galadriel had to laugh at the simplicity of the proposition. "Vana, have I recently told you how wonderful you are?"  
  
"Yes," the woman replied complacently, "but it always bears repeating, I think."  
  
  
  
Galadriel sat at Melian's left hand at dinner that night, and was pleased to renew friendships and acquaintances throughout the long meal. Celeborn did not appear, and it did not take a discerning eye to see that the king was not pleased by his absence. She met his clear, gray glance over Melian's head and saw that he was now more strongly her ally at this defection. Celeborn might have disguised his difficulties up to this point with his uncle, but now it was clear even to Elu Thingol that more than a slight upset had occurred.  
  
"If he were younger, I would take him to task over his behavior," the king said to her when the household retired from the table. "You hardly deserve such a homecoming." It was left unsaid that Melian and Thingol hardly deserved such treatment, either, to have their kinsman absent himself without provocation or excuse.  
  
Galadriel took that reaction to mind as she returned to Celeborn's door, and was once again told he was not within by his head servant, one young, silver-eyed youth with a waif-like, slight stature and soft voice.   
  
"I am concerned," Galadriel said after a pause, as he waited for her departure. "I am more than concerned. His Majesty missed your lord at dinner, and seemed not at all pleased. I would not for all the world be the cause of such upset."  
  
The boy's brows lifted. "Beg pardon, Lady? How can your esteemed self be the cause?"  
  
"I am convinced the Lord Celeborn blames me for my kinsman's follies at Nargothrond, but I would not have him alienate his own kin in order to avoid me."  
  
She had never seen such alarm on a face that seemed not accustomed to such expressions. Apparently this was new and upsetting information to him, but the expression was fleeting.  
  
"I can assure you, Lord Celeborn has expressed no such blame, Lady. But I will convey your concerns."  
  
"Thank you," Galadriel said, with her best smile.  
  
"…you are …very welcome," the boy replied, his eye wide and awestruck.  
  
On the way back to her chambers, Galadriel reflected that she did not give Vana enough credit. Vana might not be a warrior or a woman of highest lineage, but she certainly knew more about the intricacies of the households she occupied. Galadriel had learned much from Melian in reading people's desires and motivations, but she had yet to apply them in terms of courtly politics. She now deemed that it was a lesson worth learning.

Vana reported the next morning that she was keeping an eye on Celeborn's servants, and Galadriel, deeming the situation at an impasse, kept company with Melian as was her wont. It was in a spell of silence, while Melian was reading and Galadriel was designing a new project that Melian stiffened in her chair, casting down the tome that had been resting on her knees. Her green eyes were wide and staring.  
  
Standing in shock and concern, Galadriel watched as the queen of Menegroth sat still and far-gazing, then slowly relaxed, finally blinking.  
  
"What is it?" she asked her friend. "What did you see?"  
  
"Oh, Galadriel!" the Maia cried. "Celeborn has left Doriath!"  
  
This information was so unexpected, that it took a moment for Galadriel to understand. "What?"  
  
"He has just crossed the Girdle out of northwestern Doriath."  
  
It was now Galadriel's turn to stare. "That far? That means…he left yesterday."  
  
"Yes. And alone!"  
  
Dread weighed heavy in Galadriel's stomach as they looked at each other in apprehension. "Then I will be following."  
  
The queen did not try to dissuade her. "Not alone," Melian told her. "I have some interest in keeping both of you safe, and since my nephew has no thought to his own safety, I mean to do it for him."  
  
A day behind! Galadriel fumed, as much of what had just been unpacked was packed again. Vana was staying in Menegroth to continue her cousin's interests at home. When her horse was readied, she saw Melian and Thingol waiting in the courtyard with a brace of armed Elves, among them the familiar face of the boy whom she had assumed was Celeborn's head servant, by the name of Eleni, who was, Melian explained, also a kinsman. Eleni, apparently, had been in the dark as much as any other inhabitant in Menegroth, but the youth took it personally that he had not discerned his lord's mind.  
  
Thingol gave her one of his latest maps, and showed her the point at which Celeborn had passed the Girdle, where the river Sirion flowed from the north. His finger traced north along the river, curving along the foothills that were its source, and pressed against the lettering there. Hithlum, the kingdom of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor. He exchanged a meaningful look with Galadriel that told her that he too had guessed why Celeborn might have headed in that direction.  
  
Maedhros was known to guest in that kingdom, in the company of his best friend, Fingon. If Celeborn was seeking reprisal upon the son of Fëanor, Fingolfin's realm would be the first place to seek him.  
  
Melian rolled the map and gave it to her when she was mounted, clasping her fingers. "I know not what madness has taken our kinsman, but I do not have to tell thee it fills me with fear that he seeks its source, my friend…to go to that place, where no kin of ours has willingly gone…"  
  
"I do not fear it," Galadriel assured her. "Fingolfin is my uncle, and the place the seat of my kinsman's house. Even Fëanor's sons do not dismay me in such a place."  
  
They turned their horse's head and rode hard north.  
  
++++++++  
  
Celeborn was proud, yes, and certainly his disposition could be called impassive to those who did not know him. To say that his nature was steady was to state the obvious; very little disturbed the complacent temper that was the source of his reputation.  
  
But the last almost-century had seen a disconcerting prevalence of emotional upheavals for Thingol's wise nephew, all of which could be laid at Galadriel's door. It was Galadriel whom he loved, and whose very existence brought with it a cascade of struggles.  
  
Although the origin of this newest torture was not specifically Galadriel's fault, Celeborn bitterly acknowledged that his love for her had certainly introduced another element to his conflict with Maedhros. It was rare that Celeborn experienced self-doubt to his very nature, and now he doubted everything.  
  
He wondered at the strength of his love for Galadriel; he questioned his own capacity to be faithful to his own feelings for her. He was conflicted to the point that he knew he could not face her, and of all his options, he had only one.  
  
Face the one that had created this torment, and bravely attempt to end it.  
  
He was not being sensible, and he knew it. A man less conflicted would have thought things through a little more wisely, but Celeborn was not a man used to thinking through his own problems, having spent his life solving the problems of others.   
  
It took him three days to make it out of Doriath and into the misty foothills bordering Hithlum. He was not attempting secrecy once he recognized the signs of Fingolfin's marchwardens, but stilled Quesse and waited upon the foggy road when they appeared before him, armored and grim-faced warriors with the Sun and Stars clearly displayed on their blue and silver surcoats. He bore only the black cloak Galadriel had fashioned for him, but the marks on his saddlery were Melian's. They regarded any Elf not Noldor with some suspicion, but they were courteous if a little clipped in that courtesy, and escorted him into Barad Eithel, the eastern fortress at the source of the Sirion. They did not ask him his business, for that was the domain of their superiors, and for that, Celeborn was grateful. He did not known how he would explain himself.  
  
The Noldor as a rule did not build underground, Finrod being the exception to the rule. Fingolfin had build Barad Eithel on the eastern foothills of high Ered Wethrin, overseeing the falls that were the source of the region's mightiest river. Menegroth had its outlying buildings out of necessity, but these towers were like nothing in Celeborn's experience, taller than any building he had ever seen, bare to the eye of anyone approaching from the south and east. There was something daring in that bold design, as if to pronounce that the beings living here had not fear of what might find them.  
  
It was an alien sentiment, and filled Celeborn with the foreboding of one whom had lived his life in necessary secrecy. It was a sort of insanity, he mused, that these Noldor out of Valinor indulged in. And then he fell to wondering after the spiraling design of white stone towers and peaked roofs, and whether they were inspired by the workings of the Valar, as they passed through guarded gates where armored sentinels watched silently.   
  
His steed, Quesse, had endured much strangeness (including heavier saddlery for a long trip) in the last three day with a sort of spirited good-naturedness that was the hallmark of her breed. Now, she balked slightly and rolled her eyes as her hooves clipped against paved stone. Menegroth's pastures and stables were packed dirt, and the roads the same. Celeborn murmured to her, his own eye nervously scanning the strangeness of buildings on either side of him.  
  
The captain told him that he was to be taken to the steward after Quesse was stabled in the guards' stable. Celeborn did not let the anxiety show on his face as they passed under another guarded gate, this one more ornate, and entered a courtyard at the base of the largest of all towered buildings. There they dismounted, and servants came to take their steeds. One look at the young and black Quesse, with her prancing and nervous turning, and they were calling for the stable master, a tall man with a long face and reddish hair. The master came out, brows rising more at Quesse than her master, thought he cursorily introduced himself before examining the barely mature filly with intense scrutiny.   
  
"Five years?" he asked, holding out a hand for Quesse to investigate.  
  
"Six."  
  
"Bred to hunt?"  
  
When Celeborn nodded, the master rubbed Quesse's neck, thoughtfully. "Unusual color."  
  
Celeborn tried not to smile. Were all stable masters of the same line? Once you understood one, it was pretty much natural to understand all. He knew exactly where this conversation was heading. "She hasn't taken to mate yet."  
  
The stable master gave him a shrewd look that almost covered his disappointment. But he rallied almost immediately. "Do you give them a chance to choose?"  
  
By 'you' Celeborn knew he meant 'you ignorant Dark Elves' and smoothed his own expression. "We do."  
  
"Interesting. Well, aren't you a quick girl," the man said, in an indulgent tone as Quesse began to huff around the pockets of his coat. "I'll stable her by herself until I get a glimpse of her style, and let her run with the others if she's cooperative."  
  
Celeborn bowed gratefully. Quesse's dark eyes watched him even as the stable master brought out a slice of fruit and presented it to her. Celeborn watched her lip it up, then patted her in farewell. He turned and went with the surprisingly patient guards.  
  
Perhaps these were civilized folk, after all, if they valued their steeds so highly.  
  
  
Fingon was acting as part scribe, part advisor for his father when the steward entered into the hall, leading a tall stranger into open court. Heads were turning like the ripples of wind over water, so that even the king paused, curious to see the cause of distraction. It was perhaps meet that open court was always somewhat informal, Fingon thought, else his father might have found such distraction annoying.  
  
What he had first thought was a tall maid wearing a silver veil soon revealed itself to be something even more extraordinary, and for a moment Fingon felt his throat tighten. Not since Valinor, and in the persons of his aunt, Eärwen, and Fëanor's mother, Míriel, had he known of such hair, long and bright silver. Out of the corner of his eye, the king leaned forward, seemingly making the same connection.  
  
But this was male, tall and almost as beautiful as a maid, but with high cheeks and dark blue eyes. He wore a black cloak, over which that amazing hair only seemed the brighter. He also wore an impassive, yet attentive expression and seemed not at all perturbed by the attention he was getting.  
  
He was definitely not Noldor, Fingon knew, but that silver hair gave him the idea of where this one had come from.  
  
From his throne next to his son's, the father glanced with a raised brow.  
  
"Out of Menegroth, think you?" Fingon mused for his benefit. "I know no other place that hair could have come from."  
  
"Thingol and the Teleri are the one and the same, in blood," the king agreed. "From his line, the silver hair passed into Valinor, and to Finarfin's wife. So why not to his brethren here in the Mortal Lands?"  
  
"Your Highness," the steward murmured humbly, "this one has entered into your kingdom from the south, following the Sirion. He has requested to speak to someone in authority, and knowing your pleasure in speaking to travelers, I have brought him to you."  
  
The king beckoned to the stranger. "Come forward, visitor."  
  
The tall man stepped forward, then bowed low, rather exquisitely.  Fingon felt suddenly ungainly and very plain, looking upon such elegance, and wondered at himself.   
  
"Who are you, sir, and what is your business in these lands?"  
  
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I am Celeborn of Doriath."  
  
Fingon smiled at his father triumphantly. "As I supposed," he murmured for the king alone.  
  
"We have had but rare messengers from Doriath since settling these lands," Fingolfin stated. "But you are not one of them, I deem. What connection have your with Elu Thingol?"  
  
The man smiled in pleasant surprise at Fingolfin's astuteness. "He calls himself my uncle, but truth be told, he is my great-uncle."  
  
"A noble visitor, then, the first from your kingdom. And your purpose?"  
  
Lord Celeborn paused only slightly, then said, "I have business with one Maedhros, son of Fëanor."  
  
Fingolfin glanced at Fingon, and father and son once again exchanged unsaid responses with a glance.  
  
_Now what has that man done?_ the king's look asked.  
  
His son's said: _I have no idea how this man connects with Maedhros, but it cannot be good.  
_  
"You may well be amazed," the Sindarin said. "We met as I was leaving Nargothrond."  
  
That made some sense. Maedhros had been to Nargothrond recently, but he had never mentioned the silver-haired nobleman at all in his stories of his visit.  
  
Fingon felt a twinge of anxiety and something darker and more possessive. He categorized it as a friend's concern, and locked it away for later scrutiny as he gazed at this strange Elf.  Perhaps it was this strange feeling of inferiority working on his mind, although he continued to question it. Was he not a prince and warrior of reknown? What cared he for silver hair and blue eyes?  Mahogany and gray were equally as fine.  
  
"You are welcome, whatever your business," the king stated generously. "We have no quarrel with King Thingol, and would show our best side to his kinsman." To the steward, he said: "Show the lord to his rooms and communicate his desire to Lord Maedhros."  
  
As the Sindarin lord turned, Finrod saw Fingolfin's head come up and his eyes narrow. "Lord Celeborn, hold a moment."  
  
The lord turned, the black cloak and its intricate design swinging out of view again.   
  
"That is an amazing garment, My Lord," the king observed. Fingon had missed part of the design, and wondered at his father's sudden intensity.  
  
Something passed over the lord's expression like a brief cloud, before disappearing. What was it? Fingon wondered. It looked something like sadness, and a little like fear.   
  
"My thanks. It was a gift."  
  
"Which Noldor lady gave you this gift?" the king inquired.  
  
The blue eyes lowered and Celeborn smiled softly. Used to gauging the expressions of others, Fingon perceived that it was an entirely false expression. This man did not like to be put to a disadvantage, did not like to be surprised and cornered.   
  
"Ah, is the hand of a Noldor so easily discerned? It was made by King Finrod's sister," the lord answered lightly. "It was something of a play on my name."  
  
Fingolfin sat back and stared at the nobleman thoughtfully. Fingon could see him calculating. What was this man to Artanis, that she would give him such a gift? Cloaks did not fall from her hands so readily. Indeed, Artanis was very careful about anything she gave.  
  
The steward was ready to lead their guest away, so Fingolfin nodded his permission. Celeborn bowed again with that perfect grace, and strode after. Fingon finally saw the intricate embroidery of the White Tree of Eressëa on the back of that cloak, a work of many days.  
  
Fingon sat through the rest of the meeting with some restless trepidation, a strange mixture of curiosity and unease, and as soon as it was acceptable to do so, he found himself at Maedhros's door. The servant conducted him in to the man himself, sitting by the window with an unopened book on his lap, his fiery red hair vibrant against the blue sky beyond him, his noble profile stern and familiar.   
  
"You heard, then?" the Fëanorian inquired without inflection.  
  
"Heard? I was there. You've never seen such a stir."  
  
"Beautiful, isn't he? A veritable Teleri deity." Maedhros turned then, giving Fingon a wry glance.  
  
"Why is the Teleri deity here, my friend?" Fingon asked, pulling up a chair. "Because Father is rather taken aback that Thingol's great-nephew has appeared in his court without warning, without guards."  
  
Maedhros's gray eyes glinted. "Thingol's great-nephew? Truly?"  
  
Fingon was perplexed. "Who did you think he was, visiting Nargothrond as he did?"  
  
The redhead shrugged. "What do I care about that? To tell the truth, I don't even know why he's here."  
  
"You don't," Fingon echoed flatly.

"No. It was just a brief meeting at the Falls of Sirion, he leaving and me arriving. We hardly exchanged a few dozen words." Maedhros's mouth quirked. "Perhaps it was the kiss."  
  
"What?"  
  
The Fëanorian chucked at Fingon's aghast expression. "You saw him. Exquisite. All that pale, silver hair. Mark you, silver. And so utterly and elegantly standoffish. It was imperative I give him my due."  
  
"You kissed a strange Sindar after a moment's meeting?" Fingon clutched at his temple. Valar, this was not happening!  
  
"Certainly," Maedhros affirmed, unconcerned.  
  
At first Fingon could not imagine such a thing, but suddenly he could: Maedhros claiming the pale lips of that otherworldly creature. How would such a man react?  
  
"He was offended," he guessed. "You offended the nephew of King Thingol of Doriath!"  
  
"Well, he wasn't very cooperative at the end, I'll give you that," his friend said, a thoughtful look deepening his handsome features. "But he seemed to like it towards the beginning. Before Finrod appeared, he seemed to recover his pride. He gave me such a look! It would have blasted stone."  
  
"You offended the nephew of King Thingol of Doriath," Fingon repeated, dazed.  
  
"You've already said that," Maedhros observed mildly. "It was just a kiss. I don't see how it should concern anyone." He glanced over as his servant appeared. "That would be him now. You will excuse me?"  
  
"Of course…" Fingon rose, then stopped, grasping his friend's arm. "Maedhros."  
  
"Oh, do stop. If I wanted worries and injunctions, I would have petitioned your father."  
  
Fingon opened his mouth, offended and a little hurt, but just then Lord Celeborn appeared and stopped at the sight of them. Nothing showed on his fair face, and Fingon found himself admiring the man once again. Closer up, he was as exquisite as Maedhros had said. How would Maedhros say it? A "pretty piece"?  
  
Instead, he bowed to the lord slightly, and left them there. Once outside in the hallway he stopped, suddenly bereft, and turned to look at the closed door behind him with a feeling of immediate and terrifying resentment. He wasn't sure why. His best friend was known for his little dalliances here and there.  
  
A sudden sense of foreboding told him that this was one to worry about.   
  
+++++  
  
Whatever happened the day before in Maedhros's rooms was a subject of gossip the following morning, but no one knew anything for certain. The Fëanorian was being unusually discreet and Fingolfin's Sindarin guest, when he came to the king's invitation to breakfast, was as pale and impassive as the day before.  
  
Fingon noted that he chose to sit as far away from Maedhros as possible, however, and knew that would send tongues wagging for lack of anything more titillating. As usual Fingon sat at his father's left, with his friend at his side, and no amount of small observations on his part could show him the state of Maedhros's mind, except that the Fëanorian was not particularly interested in Celeborn's presence across the table. There were no idle or intent glances back and forth. They did not exist to each other.  
  
Which told Fingon something, after all. It had not gone well.  
  
"Why did he come, then?" he asked the redhead later as they stood in the mews, looking over the year's adolescent hawks for promising hunters.   
  
"To settle something," was all his friend would say, in a clipped tone unlike himself. "And not in the ways you think," he added after a glance at Fingon's expression. "But it is not concluded yet," he muttered, "not by a long throw."  
  
When they next passed by the pasture, they were surprised to see a new steed running with the more familiar ones. She was young, sprightly, and as blue black as a crow's wing.  
  
"The Sindarin's, I take it," Fingon said to the stable master as they entered the stables.   
  
"Indeed, your highness, indeed. A pretty thing, too."  
  
Maedhros quirked a smile. "Indeed he is."  
  
The man blinked at him, then laughed. "Are you meaning the tall, polite fellow?"  
  
"I take it you meant the horse," Fingon said with a smile, taken slightly aback by the cavalier description of Thingol's kinsman. _Tall, polite fellow?_  
  
"I do, Sire. I was hoping she'd take to one of the stallions, but so far she's too busy with the pasture to think on them. I could bargain for a foal, if I played it right."  
  
Fingon had to laugh at the single mindedness of the man, but inwardly conceded that such a foal would be a credit to their stable. She had a rare color and spirit.  
  
Somewhat like her master, Fingon conceded. But still, tall, polite fellow?  
  
"So what is this 'tall, polite fellow'?" Maedhros asked. Fingon stifled a laugh. As always, his friend voiced what he thought.  It had always been this way, each of them filling in what the other lacked.  
  
The stable master shrugged. "He just was. Never had a nobleman bow to me when I took his horse, I'll tell you that. And ever so concerned about the filly. Those Sindar might be civilized people after all."  
  
Maedhros said nothing, but there was a defiant spark in his eye. What had gone on the night before? Fingon wondered.   
  
They returned for luncheon to find the Sindarin in deep conference with the king. Cool, collected, exquisitely mannered, it was little wonder that Fingolfin found conversation with this being interesting, although perhaps it was Celeborn's rank that was more interesting still. Maedhros's entrance did not seem to be of any concern to either of them, but when people began to find their seats, Celeborn excused himself, and Fingolfin, after apparently monopolizing the nobleman for a while, acquiesced to this absence. Fingon marked that his friend noted the exit with a flicker of his pale gray gaze.  
  
"A modest man," Fingolfin judged him when Fingon asked after the conversation. "And more powerful than he admits to. He has Thingol's ear almost exclusively when it comes to matters domestic. He has also bonded with three of Finarfin's sons on that visit; he knows too many of their habits to not have spent some time with them."  
  
"And Artanis?" Fingon wondered, remembering that cloak.  
  
"He does not speak of her."  
  
On the other side of Fingolfin, Maedhros laughed without humor. "Now, imagine that. Strange behavior for someone whom she means to wed."  
  
Conversation about him stopped. Fingolfin and Fingon stared at the redhead.  
  
The king's voice was ice. "Explain yourself."  
  
"As I've said. According to Finrod, Celeborn is Artanis's intended. She's even accepted his _epesse_, the name Galadriel."  
  
"This was no secret to keep from us," Fingon snapped, amazed beyond measure at his friend's strange humor.  
  
The Fëanorian glanced at them from his food. "I kept no secrets. How was I to know he did not divulge it to you, himself?"  
  
Fingon opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. He wasn't quite sure if Maedhros was telling the truth or being evasive. "And were you privy to this information before or after you knew him in Nargothrond?"  
  
"After, of course," the man replied calmly. "Finrod told me. Really, stop looking at me like that."  
  
That feeling of foreboding was back again, but Fingon dared not open a more intimate conversation in the company of half a dozen members of court. He glanced at Fingolfin, and found that his father looked none too appeased by Maedhros's words either. Turning back, he found his friend rising and excusing himself.  
  
Fingolfin leaned over and said against his ear: "This will out at dinner, or afterward, by the Valar! I want the whole story."  
  
"Father…"  
  
"Stop cozening him, Son. He'll own up to his actions, as any of us do. I want no enmity between myself and Thingol!"  
  
Fingon nodded his agreement, and silently vowed to discover the truth himself, for Maedhros's blithe behavior was beginning to germinate the seed of frustration in him, and a resentful anger.  
  
  


  
He decided on a different course, heading toward Celeborn's rooms, but the servants there re-directed him toward the stables, saying that there had been an argument with Lord Maedhros, after which the Sindarin lord had decided to tend his steed.  
  
Fool! He thought. Of course Maedhros would have attempted Celeborn again. And then Fingon realized all along what Maedhros was trying to do. He was resentful only that he did not know why, and frustrated that his friend was being so impolitic about the whole thing.  
  
He kept telling himself this all the way to the stables.  
  
Celeborn was in conference with the stable master at the fence, watching as Quesse socialized with three or four of the Noldor horses. She was definitely being courted.  
  
They would be lucky if she was less stubborn than her master.  
  
At Fingon's appearance, Celeborn turned and bowed, and the stable master excused himself.  
  
"She's quite a prize," Fingon said, nodding.  
  
"Perhaps. She is young still." There was a quirk to the silver-haired Elf's brows. "She's a bit too impulsive."  
  
Obviously it was not a trait Celeborn held dear. No wonder he didn't care for Maedhros.

"High spirits have their advantage."  
  
The lord raised an eyebrow at him, easily detecting the undercurrent of conversation. It was easy to underestimate this one, under that prettiness. "There is no value in blind action," he commented. "Life, limb and heart are broken on the stone of thoughtlessness."  
  
Fingon blinked, then smiled, although doing it seemed to bring a bitter taste to his mouth. Celeborn was too wise, too wise indeed. "Did you break either on your ride here?" he dared.  
  
That earned a long stare, and then a little, acquiescing smile. "I tend my own hurts," the Sindarin said. "Best you see to your own."  
  
It was a long time after Celeborn had left that Fingon decided to be vaguely offended by his boldness, and only after he understood many things about himself and why he was angry with Maedhros. He could not reprimand Celeborn for opening his eyes with a few well-chosen words.  
  
He was beginning to realize why Elu Thingol valued the man, and why Artanis coveted him.  
  
+++++++  
  
Dinner was a more intimate and tense affair, although the sources of such tension themselves seemed untouched for most of the meal. Maedhros was much himself, blithe and unconcerned, and Celeborn was as they had come to know him, painstakingly civil.  
  
But somewhere towards the end, there was a fracture.  
  
Because it was a small affair, there were only immediate family present, with the exception of their noble guest. Without the presence of numerous others to keep tempers in check, it was not surprising that things began to deteriorate.  
  
It began when Celeborn, ever so apologetically, proposed that he leave the next day. It was not standard protocol, when partaking of a king's hospitality, to insist on pressing a quick departure, and Fingon wondered at the reason, although he thought he might know why, considering how maddening Maedhros could be.  
  
He was surprised to discover that he would not be sorry to see the elegant Sindarin go, that the political and personal tensions engendered by his presence were interfering with his peace of mind. He imagined his father felt something similar.  
  
Maedhros, on the other hand, looked thunderously displeased.  
  
"If our distant kinsman feels the need to return home, of course we will not demur," the king said. "I would ask if our hospitality has been in any way lacking."  
  
Celeborn's eyes did that dip and slide that Fingon knew meant he did not want to answer the question. It was the same reaction they had gotten when asking about his cloak.   
  
"He's too perfectly polite to tell you the truth." Maedhros's voice abruptly cut through the silence. All eyes turned and looked at him; Fingon resisted the temptation to pound his head onto the table amid the plates and goblets of wine. Instead, he glanced at his father and winced.  
  
Fingolfin was not pleased.  
  
Celeborn's usually impassive features colored slightly, but he did not look at the Fëanorian directly.  
  
"And what," snapped out Fingolfin's voice, "would be this truth, Nephew?"  
  
Maedhros lifted insolent eyes first to the king, and then to Celeborn. "That our impeccable guest cannot be out of our proximity fast enough."  
  
Fingon had never truly imagined how someone as collected as Celeborn would react in anger; now he did not need to. Those blue eyes, normally dark and somnolent, glittered, but his voice, if possible, grew even cooler, turning sharp and frigid: "I must protest, son of Fëanor. It is not their proximity I wish to leave. Or were you referring to yourself in the plural?"  
  
Automatically, Fingon looked at Maedhros, whose face was flushed in anger. Maedhros would never win a war of words, and it was foolish to put him in his place with them, for his impulsive temper was never pretty when he felt humiliated. "Tell His Majesty, then, Lord Celeborn, why you really imposed yourself on our hospitality."  
  
"Maedhros!" Fingolfin's roar whipped out.   
  
But Maedhros pushed ahead recklessly. "I'm sure they'd be interested in the truth, this time, instead of evasive lies."  
  
"I have never lied," the lord replied, eyes searing cold.  
  
"Circling the truth is in itself a falsehood," the Fëanorian replied.  
  
"And you Noldo have never avoided the truth for convenience sake, have you?" came the quiet reply.  
  
Fingon drew in a sharp breath. It was a masterful blow.  
  
Maedhros stood abruptly. "And still you avoid the truth!"  
  
"Which truth should be told?" the lord returned sharply. He was not standing to face Maedhros, but his knuckles were white where he clutched at the arms of his chair. "That at the Falls of Sirion, a son of Fëanor called me Teleri, and made advances on me?"  
  
One of the servants gasped. Fingolfin stared. Fingon dropped his head.  
  
"And yet, here you are, pursuing me over leagues. If it was such a distasteful experience, why would you come here, Lord Celeborn? For you certainly have not called revenge down upon me, have you?"  
  
"Maedhros," Fingon ventured uneasily, his hand on his friend's forearm. "Guard yourself."  
  
"Why should I? I did not ask this…this…overnice courtier to come here!"  
  
The king stood and silence fell. "Lord Celeborn," he said, "do you have aught to complain about against Maedhros, son of Fëanor?"  
  
The Sindar stood politely in response. "The matter has already been resolved, Your Highness. I regret that I have broached it here before you."  
  
"Has it, Lord Celeborn?"  
  
Blue eyes slid to Maedhros. "On my side, I lack nothing more than your leave to return to my home."  
  
Fingolfin frowned at the redhead. "Maedhros? What is your complaint?"  
  
Maedhros shook off Fingon's hand, "How can I complain, since my adversary has so eloquently and generously relinquished my offenses, so perfectly forgiving?" His mouth twisted. "So condescendingly perfect."  
  
Fingon saw Celeborn's expression shift subtly, his eyes widening just enough that Fingon knew he had suddenly understood something. It eluded Fingon, how anyone could understand Maedhros's mad behavior.  
  
Just then there was a slam of a door and a patter of slippered feet. Fingolfin's steward approached in a fast clip, a look of hectic panic on his face.  
  
"What is it?"   
  
"Your Highness, she has come! The Lady Artanis is but moments behind me, and in such a temper! I could not delay her to let you know."  
  
Celeborn turned abruptly, knocking over his goblet. His eyes were wide and wild, and there was such a look of fear in his pale face, that Fingon was amazed. Many men were intimidated by his cousin, and some had cause to fear her, but surely not her own intended!  
  
And then she was there, that unmistakable tall form, the long stride, a fall of brilliant golden hair, and that steely look of determination that many of Finarfin's children had adopted over the years. She wore a layered riding outfit. With her came a slight, dark-haired youth dressed in green and silver.  
  
Celeborn drew in a sharp breath, shaking his head silently. Fingon looked at him, perplexed, but before he could frame a question, Celeborn was turning and leaving out the other side of the hall, almost running.  
  
Artanis's gray eyes saw him and tracked him, and she slowed, looking as perplexed by Celeborn's actions as Fingon had. Then her gaze landed on Maedhros and Fingon nearly took a cowardly step back at the look of absolute fiery hatred there, emotions running as hot as Celeborn's had seemed cold.  
  
She dropped her eyes as she approached the king and did him obeisance. "My Lord Uncle, please forgive this intrusion."  
  
"Artanis! What is the meaning of this haste?" the king wondered. "Or do I guess aright that you have come for Lord Celeborn?"  
  
"I have, Your Highness." Her eyes blazed as she looked at Maedhros. "And also, I would have words with this one."  
  
Fingon glanced at his friend. The Fëanorian's expression had hardened into almost a sneering rebellion, so much more overt than anything he had shown in Celeborn's presence. "Just words? Your countenance tells me differently."  
  
They were not known to love each other, the son of Fëanor and the daughter of Finarfin, cousins across a gulf of historical conflict. And yet, Fingon would not have predicted the obvious animosity radiating from each of them. Here, he sensed, was the majority of the source of Maedhros's conflict with Celeborn.  
  
"Say on, then," Maedhros told her. "Have your words."  
  
"You will tell me what you have done to Celeborn."  
  
"What I have done? Should I not be the one asking this question? It was from you that he went in such haste, not I."  
  
The king's face was darkening. Fingon took Maedhros's arm. "Tell her the truth, Cousin. You create unnecessary discord with this mockery."  
  
Maedhros shook him off, his dark eyes snapping with vexation. "Leave off! This is no concern of yours!"  
  
Something that had been stretching tighter and tighter within Fingon pulled strongly still, as if it might snap apart with the slightest further pull. He could feel his face tense, his eyes growing hot.   
  
Had Maedhros seen his look, he might have faltered, but he was already turning to Artanis and replying. "I kissed your beloved by the Falls of Sirion, Galadriel. Then he pursued me to this place…." He paused, giving her a shrewd look. "…because he preferred my kisses."  
  
Galadriel had paled, drawing in her breath. At those last few words, however, her brows drew down. "You lie, and you lie knowingly!"  
  
At this insult, Fingolfin moved quickly to intercede, and Fingon followed suit. Fingolfin took a hold of his niece's shoulders. "Lady, do not heed him. Some madness is upon him. You do well to find the truth in Lord Celeborn instead."  
  
These words were on the edge of Fingon's hearing, for his attention was focused on his friend. Like his father, he grasped Maedhros's shoulders, but unlike his father, he shook them. "What madness is this, that you bait Finrod's sister for your pleasure?"  
  
Maedhros's face twisted. "What care you for what I do, except that I embarrass you with my presence here? Leave me be!" He dislodged Fingon's hands with his good hand and with the stump of the other, pulling back. "I tire of your meddling!"  
  
That feeling inside snapped; Fingon could feel it within his chest and in his eyes, growing hotter still. Maedhros faltered, then, his eyes widening at his friend's expression. "Meddler, am I? I who have defended your name when not even your brothers would be so charitable? If I were a lesser man…" His fist clenched. He had never wanted to hurt someone as much as he wanted to hurt Maedhros now, to force his friend to feel a pain twinned with his own. "You say leave you be. Then I will. You will not ever need to look for me again."  
  
Maedhros blanched. Behind them, he could hear Galadriel mutter something, and out of the corner of his vision, she pursued Celeborn's course with a quick stride, led by the steward and followed by her slight escort. "Fingon," the Fëanorian said, a tinge of pleading in his tone. "No…"  
  
Fingon stared at him, unblinking, until Maedhros dropped his eyes.   
  
"Forgive me…forgive me, coz! I spoke in anger."  
  
"Did you? I heard the truth in it. I interfere with you unnecessarily, you say. You would cause strife between out two kins, nay, between two kingdoms! But you will not hear me, for I _meddle_." He placed a dry emphasis on the last word.   
  
Maedhros flinched. "Nay, nay. You do not meddle. It makes me mad, is all!" His head dropped, one hand grasping Fingon's shoulder. "Help me, _mellonamin. Amin lava, mellonamin_!"  
  
Fingon's heart softened. The tension within him eased, and he drew a breath as Maedhros's forehead rested against his chest, for he could feel the trembling within his friend's body. "I do not understand you, _mellonamin._ Do you love him so well?"  
  
Maedhros laughed, choking on bitterness. "Nay, I love him not. I would that I had never seen the silver-headed wood Elf!"  
  
"Then why do you torment him, unless it be love or hate?"  
  
"I do not know! Would that I did!"  
  
Fingon's mind found anchor on that one moment in time, frozen on the image of Celeborn, blue eyes widening in understanding. What had Maedhros said that had triggered that look?  
  
_So condescendingly perfect_.

Fingon drew in a breath, his head turning to look at the stump that had once been Maedhros's right hand. Why hadn't he understood?  
  
"He is beautiful," he ventured, watching Maedhros's reactions. "Tonight you called him 'perfectly condescending.'"  
  
Maedhros stared at him. "What are you saying?"  
  
"I think you know. You resent him."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Do you?"  
  
Maedhros drew a deep breath, and shook his head. "I resent his…pride."  
  
"You resent his perfection."  
  
Maedhros's breath stuttered. "I don't think---"  
  
"You resent his perfect calm, so you tear it down."  
  
The Fëanorian blinked, then swallowed heavily. "Yes."  
  
"You have done everything to make Celeborn angry, to lose his calm, to reveal his imperfections."  
  
Maedhros nodded, finally. "Yes."  
  
"And Artanis?"  
  
Maedhros's head snapped up. "Her most of all!"  
  
+++++++  
  
Galadriel had never experienced such rage, outside of actual battle. She had been deceived, eluded, and lied to. She had ridden almost three days without rest, and the whole while her thoughts had bent toward Celeborn and why he had fled Doriath as he had. It had all come to Maedhros, and what she had perceived as his crime against her lord.  
  
But now, she was unsure. Maedhros's mockeries were more painful because they contained the seeds of truth.  
  
Celeborn had run from her. Twice. And although Maedhros's claim that the Sindar preferred his kisses had registered as a falsehood, it was one not entirely without some little truth.   
  
If not for revenge, then why had Celeborn come to this place?  
  
The steward led her to Celeborn's rooms, finding them locked. He glanced to Galadriel for permission, and she nodded for him to use his keys. Eleni watched anxiously. If Celeborn's behavior was like a blow to her, how had it been for him? she wondered.  
  
The fire had burned down in the hearth, and by its meager light Galadriel could see little in the front room, but enough to know he was not there. She signaled Eleni to wait there, and went to look in the bedroom, and finally, there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the opposite wall. She had never seen his face so white and strained.  
  
She returned briefly to signal that he had been found, re-entered, and shut the door behind her. His shoulders twitched at the sound.  
  
"Beloved," she said, forcing her voice low, suppressing her anger and frustration, "why hast thou run from me to this place, forsaking kith and kin?"  
  
His head lowered, a swath of silver hair sliding forward to hide his face. "Forgive me. Forgive me, Galadriel."  
  
"Thou dost not answer me," she observed, heart beating quickly in dread. "I am no wolf to thy lamb! What have I ever needed from thee but the truth?"  
  
"Thou wilt not like this truth," he said dully. "I fear to tell thee."  
  
She carefully sat next to him and he twitched, as if to move away, but her hand stayed him. "Tell me anyway."  
  
The whisper was so low she could barely hear him. "I have betrayed thee."  
  
It was if the world stopped its motion and all the stars fell out of the sky. She fought to breathe. "How have you betrayed me?" At Celeborn's stricken look, she winced at the change of pronoun that heralded the change in her perception of him, but it was hardly something she could undo. "Why did you come here?"  
  
"To answer a question. The question: 'How can I find pleasure in the arms of a stranger, and yet love you?'"  
  
The first words slew her and her eyes ached. The latter revived her enough to ask: "Do you love me still?"  
  
"Yes," he whispered. She was glad to find no hesitancy in the answer.  
  
"You speak of Maedhros Kinslayer--!"  
  
"Did I say I was proud? Did I say that I have not punished myself a thousand times over? I do not understand it! It has cleft my heart in twain!"  
  
Galadriel stood, her agitation so great that she felt she might fly apart if she sat still. "Tell me everything."  
  
"Galadriel…" Weary blue eyes pleaded with her.  
  
"How dare you sit there, with my _epesse_ on your lips, and deny me the truth! You cannot wound me more than you have already!"  
  
Celeborn's head bowed. "He kissed me at the Falls of Sirion."  
  
"Yes." She had suspected something of the sort.  
  
"I was surprised. I was in the middle of it before I knew it had begun. I pushed him away."  
  
"That didn't stop him," she prompted.   
  
"No. He tried again, but I was so shocked, struggling with what had happened, that I struck him and stood away. Quesse answered to her training and interceded herself between us."  
  
Somehow Galadriel had to smile at that. "And then my brother."  
  
"Yes. I was furious. To this day, I don't know what I said to him."  
  
"You told him you didn't like his cousin. He was somewhat shocked at your tone, considering your usual politeness."  
  
"I remember disliking myself at that moment, more than Maedhros. I was appalled. For a moment, I felt…"  
  
"You liked it."  
  
"Yes!" His whole aspect told his torment. "I have never dallied as many often do. But had I loved men, and been apt to play, I would not have chosen him, not him! Not a son of Fëanor, slayer of my Teleri kin! It was insupportable!"   
  
"Did you torture yourself with this the whole ride back to Menegroth?" She could picture it.  
  
"I was guilt-stricken; I was consumed in self-questioning. I could not account for it. I held no love for him, and yet…" He trailed off, and pressed his fingers to his eyes.  
  
Galadriel took a deep breath. "Beloved, it is no crime to find desire in another."  
  
Celeborn stared at her. "It is against my very nature to love in one direction and desire in another!"  
  
She frowned at him. "Perhaps this is where my Noldor sensibilities differ from yours. We account love and desire to be…rather more flexible."  
  
She had astounded him. She could see it. "In what manner?" he demanded. "How can one love one way and desire in another?"  
  
Taking his hands, she said: "Certainly, one can love and not desire."  
  
His fingers were tense and cold in her grip. "Yes," he said, turning his eyes away. Galadriel wondered of whom he was thinking.  
  
"Does it not follow that one can desire, and not love?"  
  
He swallowed, eyes flickering. He was thinking of Maedhros, perhaps. "I …thought not until…"  
  
"Then I follows that desire and love sometimes do not meet in one person. For you, they do not meet in Maedhros."  
  
"I had thought so. But never have I heard it commonly known that such a thing could be! And how could I feel it, if I loved another?"  
  
She sighed. "Dost thou love me?"  
  
Color tinted his fair face. "I do."  
  
The harder question. "Does thou desire me?"  
  
The color mounted. "I do."  
  
The relief she felt was unimaginable. "Then ask thyself this: what was it in his kiss that warmed thee? If all else about him didst repulse thee, then it is that one thing that roused thee."  
  
He looked down at their joined hands, eyes darkening in remembrance. "Believe me, I have thought on it. For in coming here, and confronting him, I once again knew I did not admire him in any regard except that one."  
  
"Has he tried again?"  
  
"Yes. He took delight in thinking I had pursued him for love."  
  
"He would. Maedhros does not lack for arrogance." That won a small smile from him. "And didst thou come to a conclusion?"  
  
His head sank lower, his face once again hidden by his bright hair. "I do not know how to say it."  
  
"Describe this kiss, then."  
  
Celeborn trembled. "Wilt thou hate me for saying? I hate myself for saying!" He clenched at her fingers, breathing deep. "Hard," he said. "Demanding."  
  
Her mouth opened in surprise, not so much at the description as the realization of what he was saying in terms of his own desires. There were men among the Noldor who knew this kind of longing; it was rare but not unknown.  
  
She tested this thought. "Did you find pleasure in the thought of yielding?"  
  
Celeborn choked. "Forgive me, I did! I had not known that I would feel that way! Am I cursed?"  
  
"Beloved, there are men who have felt thusly, that seek to submit under a commanding will. You are not cursed!"  
  
There was a long silence. Celeborn's head lifted; blue eyes hesitantly glancing at her. "It is so?"  
  
Lifting his hand to her cheek, she smiled. "It is so." His uncertain expression was so open and bewildered, he seemed almost a boy. "Such a handsome man thou art," she said, just to see the color rise in his face again. "If you have a mind to yield, I will not complain. What, shy still?"  
  
"Galadriel," he protested, turning his head away.  
  
She sighed. "I will be merciful," she decided, observing his discomfort with compassion. "At this time and place, at least. The question is, of course, how things stand with my uncle and cousins over this whole affair."  
  
Celeborn took a deep breath. "Maedhros desires and dislikes me for the same reason he does you."  
  
She stared at him, amazed by this conclusion.  
  
"We have lost nothing, not even our dignity," he clarified. "Or so he thinks. And he despises us for it."  
  
++++++++++  
  
Artanis, most of all? Fingon wondered, staring at the pale features of his red-haired friend.  
  
"How do you mean?" he asked.  
  
"Every tragedy has been cast her way. Her mother's kin die in Alqualondë, and yet she is not brought down. She is forced to cross the Helcaraxë, and she survives. She comes to this deadly place, and finds royal kin to shelter her! And, after ages of refusing every suitor to come her way, she finds the most exquisite Dark Elf in Beleriand and binds him to her!"  
  
"You measure her fortune against your losses?"  
  
"How can I not? We had everything, did we not? Half of it was taken away, and the other we cast from us."  
  
"Maedhros," Fingon murmured, "is it just that…jealousy? Is this madness envy?"  
  
Storm gray eyes stared into his. "I was upon that mountain a long while, Fingon. You can't imagine how I suffered, how I thought on all I had done and found myself wanting. You will never know that feeling."  
  
Icy fingers of dread grasping his heart, Fingon realized he was finally seeing the center of everything now, the core of his friend's madness. "_Mellonamin_," he murmured. "Do not further torment yourself."  
  
"I have not stopped," Maedhros whispered. "I have never stopped…"  
  
Finally the Fëanorian succumbed, and allowed Finrod to pull him close and comfort him, and although he trembled, he did not weep.  
  
His tears had dried forever on the peaks of Thangorodrim, and Fingon was the only one who truly understood why.  
  
The day he had cut off his best friend's hand instead of his life, Fingon had set them on this road. Now he could see the end. Did Maedhros wish Fingon had killed him, instead of freeing him? Fingon shivered at the doubt that he had subverted so many times in the past. But all he said was: "This poison has long been building within you."  
  
Maedhros did not answer.  
  
+++++++  
  
It was a much altered scene later than night, with Galadriel at Celeborn's side and Fingon at Maedhros's. Maedhros, repentant and quiet, offered a formal apology to the Sindarin lord, and it was accepted with solemnity. Then both parties were steered away from each other during the night court's festivities under the stern eye of King Fingolfin, who knew better than trust Galadriel's mild expression. He would have no peace until the silver-haired catalyst and his warrior-lady were far outside his borders.   
  
For her part, Galadriel could not help but make the acquaintance of many of her cousins, and beside her Celeborn was silent, attentive and strangely anticipatory. The shaken and doubtful man was once again his cool and collected self, but from his eyes he could see that he had not forgotten what had been said between them. She let him ruminate on matters during this time until she caught him sleepily stifling a yawn as more and more people retired.   
  
She accompanied him back to his chambers and watched as he grew tenser and tenser the nearer they got to his door. When he opened the door, it was with trembling hands. She shook her head at his inquiring look.  
  
"I am weary," she said, "and bid you good night."  
  
Something flickered in his eyes, uncertain and shy. It was that hesitant look that sparked in her the desire for touch. The warm flesh of his cheek under her hand was smooth, so pale. He was all cool silver and shadowed blue eyes and yet under her hand he burned warmly. He trembled, and his eyes closed.  
  
And when she kissed him, he yielded so sweetly.  
  
  
  
  
  
Mellonamin = My friend.   
Amin lava, mellonamin = I yield, my friend  
  
  
_Many thanks to Cirdan_Havens and z107m for information/inspiration on things Fingon/Hithlum related. Also thanks to Chorale and her estimable "master" for breaking down the geographical ramifications on Hithlum architecture. You people so rawk in terms of total geekiness! I 3 you!_


End file.
